An Unmarried Woman

Just when I am getting the hang of soaring in endless blue sky, I’m suddenly back down to earth with a THUD, dusting off my fanny, rubbing my scraped nose and wondering what in the hell hit me.  The cycles in emotions sometime occur as often as the Whippets need walking, which is to say, the pace is all bloody exhausting.  If I had a voice of any note I’d be belting out Company’s tune, “Being Alive” in a way to rival the stellar performance Dean Jones turned in for the stage show recording. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=am8qrrZAtP4

Little wonder that when a head cold finally got the better of me Friday night, I slept for 33 of 36 hours.  The long slumber should have made me feel better but I missed a fabulous, sunny, summer Portland weekend to awake dazed by dreams similar to an endless parade of Marley’s ghosts of the past.  And when those cobwebs cleared, I found myself, not only still behind with work and household tasks, but scrambling to catch up with changes in my social circle equal to 50 episodes of All My Children.

How often did you chuckle (with compassion) in your 40’s and say, “thank heavens that’s behind me?” as you watched your teenage son or daughter, or that of a friend’s, swing with every emotional whiff of wind? When you are happily married, the crazy, roller coaster experiences of your twenties generally seem FAR BEHIND you. Become single in your 50’s (along with a lot of your friends) and guess what you find?  They’re back!

Life is again a roller coaster.

Get a ticket to ride – my best advise of the day. Trix

June 8th, 2010

Sometimes life goes at such a dizzying speed there is no time to reflect, to share – in other words to take proper note of the magic, the realizations, the treasures.  Stuffed in pockets, filed electronically, littering my desk, stored on voice records, floating around in my mind are notes and thoughts of a zillion things and observations I would like to post, which is to say share…to offer for comment.

I hope this short notes finds you all enjoying the journey.

As always, Trix

Postscript: As I write this, Nina Simone sings, “For Myself.” It makes me smile.

May 17th, 2010

A glass of wine would have been fewer calories, but it didn’t come with these quotes.

Don’t eat anything you cannot lift. Miss Piggy
All you need is love. John Lennon
You are what you are when no one is looking.  Robert C Edwards
Life is too important to be taken seriously.  Oscar Wilde
Do or Do Not.  There is no try. Yoda
Hope is a waking dream. Aristotle

Lots of wisdom for 434 calories and a couple of bucks (American. Canadian coins are no longer accepted).

I am in the dining car of Amtrak’s Cascade Express.  My seatmate in car 9 had the look of a seasoned traveler; a nice way of saying he was smelly. Before I could decide how to deal with that I was sharply whacked on the head when the fellow in front of me declined his seat as I reached in the bag at my feet.   A swift kick to the head might be in order some days but the last time I bet on No. 9 was at a Derby Day party.  I raced for the comfort of a window seat in the bistro between cars 2 and 3.  So I’m watching the scenery, craning my neck occasionally to see what is around each bend, with an oatmeal cookie and hot coffee at my side.   The sun is poking through the trees.  I am on my way home after a weekend in Seattle.

The gypsy in my soul is waking up with each sip of java.

My sister recently repeated the advice she had bestowed on me in the early 1980’s.  “Settle down and you’ll meet someone.”  The encore was prompted by me sharing Buz’s comment about my two-city status. I reminded Shelley I didn’t follow her advise then; probably wouldn’t now.  Besides, I’d argue today, I met lots of people the past two days.

First there was the bicycle taxi owner on the waterfront.  He offered me tips on where to ride my recently inherited bike upon my return to Portland.  It was fun to hear him call out “Hey Portland” whenever our paths crossed later in the day.  A real gem was Jan, a Seattle Opera Volunteer, whose last name I should have caught. Her telling of the first act of “Amelia,” while we hovered close to a small theatre monitor in the lobby, was as engaging as what the audience heard inside. (I was uncharacteristically early to the theatre but had been given the wrong show start date by the hotel concierge so row G had a vacancy until intermission).  Jan also supplied added color with local production tidbits not in the program.

There was also Michael, the music history professor waiting tables at Tavolata, who promised he’d like nothing better than to email me suggestions for new music to download via iTunes.  And who can forget Desmond at the hotel front desk when by day two he was blowing me air kisses as I stepped off the elevator.  This after I handed him his head for botching part of my Sunday plan.  We indeed kissed and made up.

And least you think the trip was just brief, new encounters with no threads to my past or future, Tavolata is one of four restaurants (see the link below) owned by Chef Ethan Stowell, the brother of Portland friend and Oregon Ballet Theatre Artistic Director Christopher Stowell.  I also meet at noon on Sunday with Tulsa friend and caterer Angie Johnson of eat2u.  Connecting by phone Friday on business alerted us to the fact we’d both be in Seattle for the weekend.  Her ex-husband of 19 ½ years bought us a drink and took our photo near Pike and 4^th. (I wish we had a photo of Dean taking the photo; he did quite a back bend to get my lime green walking shoes in the photo.)

There is one person I didn’t meet this time in Seattle but we still got to know each other better through the trip.

Where to next?  After work tonight I am going to get out a map and consult the Whippets.

What about you?  Will you travel by boat, train, car or plane?  Where to?  And with whom will you share the journey?

I hope you’ll post photos! Lots…   Traveling is great.  Sharing makes it better.

As always, Trix

http://www.ethanstowellrestaurants.com/

May 15, 2010

I picked him up in a parking lot.

That’s the story John and I tell when people ask how a fellow from LA (Glendale to be exact) and a woman visiting Portland from Tulsa got to be friends after the briefest of chance encounters one night in late September 2008.

Actually it was a valet parking/taxi line.   Once upon a time there was an elegant south Waterfront restaurant known as Lucier until a wicked restaurant critic wrote a poison pen review that closed its doors.

John is like a big brother, the best kind: Caring, wise, confident. He’s the kind of person you wish you could pop in your pocket and take everywhere.  From the lobby of the Wyatt, as I watched him getting out of his car on Northwest 12^th Avenue,  I thought how I like everything about him, everything except maybe his choice in dogs (basset hounds) but I got used (even attached) to cats this year living with Judith during Tulsa visits.  All in all, John is pretty perfect.

One of the first things I learned about him is he has a practice of meeting at least 10 people a day, from which he’s sure to get a respectable quantity of quality contacts.  Want to go to the Oscars, looking for a hotel recommendation in Seattle?  You should have John’s number on speed dial.

“Were you falling short?  It was pretty late that Saturday night when I struck up our conversation. Had you not met your quota for the day?” I’ve asked him, when referring to why he emailed the following day.

After a couple of decades as a hospital administer, John now owns a search company, traveling the country interviewing executives for open management positions at hospitals.  Naturally, he is in the business of asking good (revealing) questions.  He even does it in a way that makes you feel you’ve found the answer without being asked the question.   I have an epiphany following each of our chats.

Late in April we were having breakfast at Lovejoy Bakery.

“I ask but I don’t know the answer.  They die on me.”  John said.  “But I have seen couples handle it lots of ways. Some make a firm rule:  no contact for six months.”

What John wasn’t saying is, “I’ve not really seen your approach before.”

John is happily into his second decade with a partner that still curls his toes, someone in many ways different from him… think classical music meets show tunes, scholar meets life of the party, pianist meets rower type pairing.   His is a “happily ever after” following the death of his first great love.

John was gently, but pointedly asking me about the wisdom of regular, social exchanges with Joel, and doubly so, but to a lesser degree, Jake.  Was it keeping me tethered to the past?  Was it having a negative effect on “moving forward?”  Friends come and go.  Many reconnect periodically.  I have never been involved in severing a relationship. I believe I’m still on good terms with everyone but the mean-spirited, incompetent school director that made Clay’s fourth grade experience a living hell for all three of us. Even we made no plan to never set eyes on each other again.  I’d actually like to see her once and slap her.  I can forgive injustices done to myself, never my child.

Acceptance, responsibility, appreciation and forgiveness.  When your brain and heart work together through these emotions I find anger gets crowded out.  And isn’t that the emotion that dictates harsh endings?

I have always recoiled at hearing a couple “spilt.”  With the intention of remaining whole versus fractured, maybe I have actually prolonged the healing process – removing the bandage slowly.   If I’d walked away sooner what moments would I have skipped?   Would important things have gone unsaid?

Thursday night after a closing tour of “Disquieted” at Portland Art Museum, I visited the gift shop.  There I came across a book titled “Dear Old Love.”  Compiled by Andy Selsberg from postings to his site of the same name http://dearoldlove.com ), the book features anonymous notes to former crushes, sweethearts, husbands, wives and ones that got away.

What has been left unsaid in your past?  Post it here. Maybe it will get read by the person it is intended for, maybe not.  I bet you’ll benefit from writing it.

Maybe these from the book http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Dear-Old-Love/Andy-Selsberg/e/9780761156055/ will inspire you:

Touchdown:  I root for the Giants because of you.  My husband has no idea.

Rocky Road: I got fat after we broke up, but don’t let that swell your head.  It was more because I was working at the ice cream store.

Near Miss:  I wish I missed you, so I could do that instead of just feeling empty.

Go Figaro:  Thanks to the tragedy of our breakup, I now love opera.  But I cannot find anyone who will go with me.

Pet Peeved:  I don’t care that you miss my dog.  When you cheated on me, you cheated on him, too.

Nude For Nothing:  Your tepid response to my naked pictures means we are never speaking again.

Not Quite A Regret:  On one hand, I should have kissed you.  On the other hand, I’ve had thirty good years imagining that kiss.

Whatever has gone unsaid, don’t leave today unlived.  As always, Trix

May 2nd, 2010

What is a neighborhood?  A collection of houses with lawns? Blocks with children playing and dogs barking?

There was a time when a neighborhood had very clear physical boundaries and emotionally encompassed community, friends and family.   I think for many of us that has changed.

How well do you know who is living either side of your front door? While your facebook “friend” count hovers near 2000, who close by would you call when you’ve made too much beef stew and would welcome dinner guests or locked yourself out or just need a cup of sugar? (not being a baker I never stock sugar nor have I gone knocking on doors for it but you get the idea).

For the most part I grew up overseas. Never have I returned to a childhood home but when I visit Tulsa each month I experience the closest thing to it.  For the past seven months I have stayed in MapleRidge-Sunset Terrace, a midtown neighborhood with a woman who has become one of my dearest friends.  It feels a bit like “going home” – actually a lot like it.  In the early 90’s I lived just a few blocks away in a house Joel, Clay and I  had for ten years, a time span still roughly twice my stay in any single residence. It was the house Clay remembers best; his experience leaving it was more profound than departures I experienced. To his one, I experienced nine places called “home.”

Lying in bed one recent Sunday morning I listened to songbirds, barking dogs, passing cars and bouncing basketballs. Wrapped up in my roommate’s Super Bowl XXII terry robe, I sprinted across the lawn for the morning paper as patrons of All Souls Unitarian Church began to park along Woodward Avenue.  I took a second to feel encouraged by this sight; cheered to see a wave of moderate church goers practicing tolerance and compassion. In this part of the country politicians are more often members of  the extreme Christian Right and they are voted into office.  Inside I brewed Chicory coffee, feed my roommates cats Raffles and Violet and efficiently polished off other household tasks.  I wanted to fit in a brisk walk before brunch with my parents and son.  Such a Sunday routine hardly differed from what Joel and I did in the 90’s.

Was it different experiencing it solo?  Certainly. If anything, I was more attuned to the experience as I blended memories with the present.  I am now only a visitor, a historian of a past decade.

A block to the north I tossed newspapers in the collection bin at Channing School, where Clay attended kindergarten plus a year of preschool dedicated to twice-weekly field trips with six classmates “double-buckled” in Ann Barry’s Volvo wagon.  I looked at the low brick wall tracing the outline of the entry walkway, remembering fondly how Clay navigated it each afternoon before leaping into my arms, safely out of sight of the director who insisted he was too old to be carried.

Then as I did a week before when orienting a friend in real estate less familiar with midtown, along my brief walk I identified the past or current occupants of most houses – the red-brick bungalow that once belonged to our Sophian remodel general contractor and then the dental hygienist I’ve seen for 20 years (who also spent some time living in Indonesia as a child). The multiple car garage of a Mediterranean Villa owned by a Porsche collector and the IT consultant for Norvell-Marcum, the multi-level landscaped garden begun by a well-known landscape artist and later cultivated by Blue Dog Market owner, Paige Martin.  Around the curve at 28^th and Cincinnati where we lived was the traditional style home with detached garage occupied by the principal of Clay’s Catholic middle school (which made putting wine bottles at the curb for recycling a questionable practice), the charming brown brick one-story called home by the prematurely gray supplier of plantation shutters for our first home by Holland Hall, the east-facing house of the manager of KoKo & Ellis, a Brookside children’s store that sold our Harvard Bound jams and shoebags.  Other houses I passed belonged to Dana Gilpin, the artist chosen for one of the early Festival of Trees commemorative pins, concert pianist Peter Simon, MAPCO colleague Mike Ward, the late Saks’ general manager Debbie Palazzo, granite and marble counter top supplier Carl McMahon, TV reporter Michelle Lowry, fabulous watercolor artist Laura Shafer and her husband John, the current president of the Porsche Club, Phillips freelance team member Myna Burk, chef Phillipe Garmy…

And our former house in the neighborhood?  A maintenance free place we under appreciated!  An infill project we outfitted inside to look like our condo at the Sophian Plaza, where we had lighted for only 18 months.  Not really emotionally ready to leave our two-bedroom at the Soph, we listed it for sale because a gaggle of siblings for Clay seemed possible and mortgage rates dipped to single digits for the first time in our experience.  Instead of a larger family, our house on Cincinnati gave birth to Joel’s teaching career, first in ballet, then yoga and to my company, Arts Society.  It was a place we entertained foreign visitors, family, Clay’s first girlfriends, WAFALs and many dear friends.  We launched fundraisers, held meetings, conducted school science experiments…

It was what a house should be.  It was a place where dreams where hatched, disappointments endured, accomplishments celebrated, Lego villages built, Easter eggs hidden, Christmas trees decorated, a rose bush (A Lucille Ball Rose!) planted.

A somewhat nomadic childhood made it easy to adopt the expression, “home is where you hang your hat.”  What I really believed was home was where Joel and Clay were. But did some of what made us a couple and a family get left behind when we left our house on Cincinnati?  In general, do we need to seek old-fashioned neighborhoods for families to thrive?  And what setting is best for empty nesters?  What makes a house a home, a neighborhood a community? How much of what we call home is it tied to a physical location? I don’t have the answers.  I live in two cities.  In some ways I feel connected to both, at other times I feel completely detached because I am an unmarried woman negotiating life solo.

I am in serious trouble.

It is approaching midnight in Portland.  Aside from a few dog walks and 15-minutes each for  lunch and dinner at nontraditional hours of the day, I’ve been at my computer with an iPhone ear bud in my right ear -ALL DAY. The skin on my face feels warm from the bright glare of the screen.  And I have another long night ahead after ending yesterday’s efforts somewhere close to three this morning.

I am woman hear me whine!

Clearly I’m not practicing good time management skills.  I am being too chatty, too social with client vendors and business colleagues.  And  thanks to facebook, I am in touch with people who otherwise would have been part of my past, people who are part of my present and people I am just getting to know who are sure to be pivotal in my future.  Social networks and technology may be the death of me but most days I cannot get enough of it.

Which would you rather say at the end of a day:  my files are pristine, my desk is neat or I yakked with a ton of interesting people today, creating some good will for my clients and it never seemed like work plus I reminded a handful of personal friends I was thinking of them?  Stopping to smell the roses is good advise.  Making the time to listen ranks right up there with it.

Enjoy the small talk!

xo, Trix

Here are some fun things I found in my net travels today:

http://www.pcpa.com Wonderful art event page.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sGkz2qCkMZ4&feature=related

A song video sure to make you smile.

http://www.bookdaily.com/book/683650 A funny read by a talented, talented Broadway star.

April 19th, 2010

I have always intended to broach the subject of online dating services. I was going to round up the statistics, read accounts and opinions online and conduct interviews with those I knew to have had success with eHarmony and match.com.  Then one night a web banner ad caught my eye.

“It’s okay to look,” it beckoned ever so innocently.

Ha! I hope the ad copy person who thunk that one up made a mint.  I muttered out loud, “it’s okay, it’s okay” like a mantra as I clicked and clicked and clicked again.

My iPhone buzzed.  “Walk the Whippets in five?” queried my neighbor Kim.  “Give me 10,” I replied as I zipped through application questions.  For a marketing professional I won’t pretend I did my best work throwing together my own profile but I posted my facebook self-portrait, some basics and dashed for the elevator.

“GUESS what I did?” I told Kim as soon as our three Whippets finished their usual high-energy, over-the-top enthusiastic greeting for each other.  I don’t remember much about our following conversation.  I wanted to get home and look – again!

Ball caps, bikes and beards.  That’s how I’d sum up what I found.   “Of course.  That’s Portland,” a friend told me.  “Hmmm… Tulsa, too,” I answered.

I began to learn the vernacular and considered posting a comment that “winks” weren’t really welcome.  How does a girl my age respond to a wink from someone in North Caroline, Ohio, Minnesota, New Mexico, Tennessee, Florida … when she lives in Portland, Oregon? “Flirt back right away with a wink, or even better, an intriguing email. He picked you out of millions,” match.com urged.

I wasn’t buying it. I hit the delete button as swiftly as I did late one night last July when I changed my facebook relationship status and Jake popped up immediately asking, “Single?”

At the time, economics, logistics and a long-term, deep connection kept Joel and I from acting impulsively but in June we had turned the first corner, or two or three.  As I sat at my desk responding to emails I pondered my profile details. I didn’t feel “married.” The facebook relationship options were limiting.  “single” wasn’t accurate.   “It’s complicated” promised to invite too many questions and “divorced” would take some time.  Why wasn’t “separating” an option, as it is on match.com?

As I waded through match.com messages initially, I experienced the gambit of emotions: dread, fear, hopelessness, interest, and compassion.  Whatever their level of honesty or motivation, on my computer screen were the faces and messages of men seeking relationships, risking rejection but taking a chance.  As days passed I found it bit easier to delete the fellows with 3 cats, 5 kids at home, 50 extra pounds, four-digit incomes and no common interests but I bought into the process.  In a week over 700 chaps had viewed my profile.  I’ve asked the question before:  “It’s a big world out there.  When it comes to something as important as finding a life partner do you limit yourself to the haystack in your backyard?”

I had beginner’s luck.  The first person I wrote back to was Buz.  A sane voice with sage advice and a great sense of humor.  We arranged to have lunch at a restaurant in South Waterfront.  I texted Joel with my plan and timetable, caught a cab and spent a delightful afternoon getting to know a new friend in Portland.  I had planned to take a cab home (good advise) but didn’t.  Please don’t tell my mom; I’ll never hear the end of it.

Buz brought to my attention the challenge my two-city schedule created for anyone interested in me.  I also hadn’t given much thought to my in-transit status: separated but not officially divorced.  When a friend suggested eHarmony was a better choice I spent some time completing their questionnaire.  It was indeed a more impressive approach than that of match.com but they rejected me! Their message was crystal clear.  eHarmony is in the business of match making, claiming credit for 2% of marriages in the United States.  When I become officially available, it will be okay to look at their membership rolls.  Not before.

Expand your horizons, Trix

Visit these sites:

http://www.eharmony.com

http://www.match.com

http://chemistry.com

Consider this:

Online Dating Magazine estimates more than 20 million people visit at least one online dating service a month (2007) and that more than 120,000 marriages a year result from online dating (2007).

April 15th, 2010

For the very reason some couples are madly enjoying being married (Nancy Hermann you know I mean you and Bill), others of us have our best shot at another chapter of bliss.

We are the tail end of the boomers. Our children have flown the coup.  We are fifty something and fit, perhaps less flush than we might have been two years ago but confident, comfortable and able to still grab life by the tail.

If you are in a relationship – great. If you aren’t – great, but don’t get lazy. Take a proactive role in finding happiness if a relationship is what you seek, as I do.  I view life has something meant to be shared.   Furthermore, the way I see it Marcello Angelini, artistic director of Tulsa Ballet, is auditioning over 1000 dancers to fill a few positions for the company’s 2010-11 season.  In looking for your Prince Charming (Princess, if you are a male reader) are you going to wait for friend Sally to call and suggest a pot roast dinner  to meet her brother’s squash partner, Delbert??

Sidebar:  “Delbert” was the term a high school art teacher who looked like Barbara Streisand used interchangeably with jerk, nut… basically a dufus.  Very clever lady.  Not only did she give me an A (for effort) but she also shared a fabulous relationship story.  She dated a fellow in the early 1970’s who had difficulty popping the question, aka committing.  What did Barbara do (yes, that was really her name AND yes, her last name started with a S)?  She began sending herself flowers and acting surprised when they arrived. “Oh, I cannot believe he sent me flowers.  We only met for lunch once,” and so on. Her Delbert got nervous about losing her to competition and proposed!  “Best $100 I ever spent,” she said with the sliest of smiles.

So today I confided to my very wise, caring Greek friend Voula that I had joined match.com.  Was it fitting perhaps that the restaurant we met at was called Veritable Quandary?! More about the online dating experience in “Beards, Ballcaps and Bikes.”

Sweet dreams, Trix

3.31.2010

I’m wondering  about my girlfriends. As I write, playing on iTunes is Perfectly Lonely by John Mayer (a recent gift from a separated woman). Today I got an email photo collage of “divorce cakes” from an engaged friend (who has gone through a divorce and very much deserves the happiness she’s found) and later a joke email about a neglected, sad woman and her husband in therapy.  Like the music and the first email, the joke got me to smile.  Actually all three provided pretty good laughs.  I can count on girlfriends to generously dole out hugs and laughs.

The icing on the cake was in the mail today:  a photo of Joel and me at a Portland fundraiser last month. It was probably the best photo we’ve taken in years. That’s a good development director for you!

I’ve thought about standing at Union Station and screaming “THIS SUCKS” at the top of my lungs when a passing train would drown out my voice.  Figured it might spook the Whippets so I moved on.

I am good. You?

March 29th, 2010

You may have heard Portland is the city of roses, the most European of American cities, the most dog friendly, the greenest, home to the most polite drivers…

Portland is a city of hoods.

That may suggest the expected collection of quaint, unique neighborhoods (a reader recently wrote of reading Portland has 120’ish) or worse – a criminal element.

By hoods, I’m speaking of apparel.  I learned this as a Portland newbie in October 2008 when the rains came.   Umbrellas, as mine did last night leaving the theatre, dance around in the wind like kennels in a Jiffy Pop tin foil dome until inverted into a lovely, stainless steel stem tulip-looking sculpture.

Yesterday spring sunshine gave way to an uncharacteristic and noisy night-long-into-day speedy rain.  After twice pushing and pulling the Whippets out for walks I puddle hopped my way solo to Safeway for staples.  A hooded character slugging home ladened with grocery bags I imagined I did not resemble the dramatic cloaked image of Meryl Streep as the French Lieutenant’s Woman surrounded by grey mist and fog.

Before I learned to dismiss coats and jacket without hoods as frivolous, I first wore a black rain hat Joel purchased at Monique’s on NW 10th Avenue.  Dear friend and fellow Tulsa transplant, Wiley Parsons,  called it “jaunty.” I think my stylish solution only shouted, “I am new! I’ll get with the program.”

It was Wiley and I that thought gloves without finger tips were the solution for cold hands when walking dogs and needing agile digits to efficiently tie doggiedoit bags.  I quickly lost one and then the mate (in the summer I would switch to regularly losing sunglasses on dog walks).  The replacement ones Wiley and Joel proudly brought home from REI were nothing short of inspired and downright goofy.  A partial mitten-like enclosure dangled from the wrists to convert the fingerless gloves to well, mittens. Good idea, poor execution.  But back to hoods versus parasols, the key to it all is we are a walking population when not crowded on street cars and disembarking from cabs. Umbrellas are bothersome, cumbersome.

It really isn’t the rain one has to cope with here, it is the greyness.  Rains are usually mists and rarely accumulate to more than that of a Midwest city.  Long Termers know to get the hell out of town by February.  The rest of us count ourselves lucky when the day brings a sun shower.  My friend Ruth Otey told me sun showers mean “the devil is beating his wife.”

Ruth moved back to Texas this week.  I’ll miss her determination to make a life here for herself and her daughter in Portland.  Ruth made no secret of her passion for anything chocolate so I’d routinely save the chocolates Umpque Bank doles out with transactions to give her on Thursdays.  Last week we paused from our duties to sample Lovejoy Bakery chocolate croissants and coffee at the kitchen table.  I wept when we said our goodbyes.  I’ll always think of her when it rains on a sunny day. Those are the days that bring rainbows.

As always, Trix