An Unmarried Woman

November 14th

The Yoga Guy wasn’t married to the Yoga Gal.  For the 25 years Joel and I were together, he alone was devoted to practicing but I now wish he’d left behind a mat and blanket.  I have a yen to move a painting and do a headstand against a wall, in a carpeted room.  My bed quilt might double as a prop but there is living alone to consider.  At just 52 I don’t want to be saying, “Help me. I’ve fallen and can’t get up.”  At age 2 our son Clay succeeded in dialing 911 (when there was no emergency); the Whippets at 6 probably would only lie on top of me if I fell out of an inversion into a injured state.

It’s been 10 years since I stood on my head.  The perspective and experience I once enjoyed.  Lately I ponder, “If I turn myself on my head, will everything else in this wackadoodle life right itself?!

About 17 years ago Joel began phasing out teaching ballet at night and on weekends to teach yoga.  I appeared at the first venue wearing my publicist hat; the article published in GTR Newspapers was a very readable, humorous, good-natured account of my first yoga class.

In subsequent years I contributed by buying, washing and folding dozens of blankets and mats Joel hauled around from one class venue to another.  I also was the photog for every image that appeared in his monthly newspaper column, Yoga Forms.  And I gave up traveling that wasn’t to a yoga workshop or certification destination – for Joel.  I had periods of showing up for class.

I was on a roll in 2000 (and last on my head) until faced with taking several weeks off from work for surgery and recovery…The good habit broke, the work ethic hit overdrive (I am Bob Medaris’ daughter).  I missed classes to get ahead at work.  In the end I bounced back to work 9 days out from hospital (Joel’s as good a nurse as yoga teacher) but only to sit in Swastikasana on my desk chair.

Human Nature LAX Exhibit by Annie Buckley

I’ve taken 5 yoga classes in the past 10 years- all have been this year.  My sixth will be at 9:45 today at LA Fitness.  Less travel would boost my monthly tally to 4 or 8, depending on whether the Sunday Yoga Guy at LA gets the rumored Friday class.  Then again, a lot of crazy stuff happens in my office on Fridays…

I won’t fib. I’ve no more gotten discipline than I’ve gotten religion (decades ago I gave up mass for lent). Inversions remind me of happy days.  As a child I spent a ton of time hanging upside down on monkey bars and jungle gyms.  Last month on a Sunday I rushed to a beach yoga class with a college friend hooked on the experience, describing it “like church.”  It was heavenly. I bent over and saw the Pacific Ocean, as the surf encircled me.  Some sort of toxic bundle of stuff inside me dissipated, replaced with a joy, a calmness, a confidence.

The practice of asanas purges the body of its impurities, bringing strength, firmness, calm, and clarity of mind. BKS Iyengar.

Joel and I separated immediately after the 2009 holidays.  This first round of holidays alone in a city that is still pretty new to me won’t be a picnic but I’ve got Sunday yoga and the welcome anticipation of standing on my head.

Gotta run.  Find something that makes you glow and stick with it!

Trix

Until I can publish links to  Joel classes in Tulsa, as well as Maridel’s classes in Springfield, may I suggest:

http://www.theyogaroomtulsa.com/The_Yoga_Room/Welcome.html

http://iyengarnyc.org/

http://www.yogapearl.com/schedule.asp

http://www.lafitness.com/Pages/ClassSchedulePrintVersion.aspx?clubid=438

http://bradkeimach.com/yoga.html

http://anniebuckley.com/html_03/art_bio_09.html

November 13th, 2010

I wanted a hamburger.   I didn’t want to walk next door to Bridgeport Brewery, pay a premium for a burger and sit alone.  As I recall it was a Friday.  Happy hour was underway.  I was more hungry than happy.   I made my way instead to Safeway.  In a brightly lit, refrigerated section of the store, I stood staring at a 2 1/2 # package of 85% lean ground beef.  I wanted a hamburger  – not 7 or 8  hamburgers.  I pushed my cart up to the meat counter.

Steve, the meat cutter, greeted me.  “How can I help you?”  he asked.  I explained that I was hoping to find single hamburger patties in the case.  There were none.

“I’ll make you one!” he said.

“You will?  Really?!”  I beamed.  A ready-to-cook patty without getting my hands cold and greasy!

Ever watch the movie Must Love Dogs? There is a scene involving a friendly butcher.  When asked by a customer for a chicken breast he opts to unrelentingly pitch the better value of buying a whole bird. His fate?  Sliced to ribbons.  Pushed to her limit, the shopper informs him,  “I am a divorced woman.   I live alone.  I eat most of my meals standing at the kitchen sink. Give me the chicken breast!”

I’ve done that – eaten standing in the kitchen, sometimes pacing.

Steve asked me, “How many ounces?  Tall or more flat?” (Sized to fit on an English Muffin, I decided, not wanting to buy 8 buns.)  “My wife likes her hamburger thick and juicy, so I make them tall.” I told Steve his wife was a lucky woman.

As I skipped off with my $.87 hamburger, I smiled.  Content with my purchase and amused by the line of singles forming at Steve’s counter.  Next time maybe I’ll buy the value pack and invite people over.

In Tulsa my son, Clay has had his own experiences shopping as a single chap.  I hope you’ll read his account at

http://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=group_156530951054013&id=156802497693525#!/home.php?sk=group_156530951054013&view=doc&id=156802494360192 (11.15 update: Not on facebook or trouble with link?  Essay included below)

Happy shopping, Trix

November 12, 2010

9 things out of 10 I usually can do really well.  Those successes put me over the moon (probably not a glam scene but I do a jig around the kitchen that leaves no doubt I am happy with an outcome).  I am as good at fixating on the one thing not exactly stellar.  I’ve had 52 (just) years to hone my single-mindedness.  Trust me – it is powerful stuff.

When one is spinning around from major life changes (and I no longer believe they come in series of 3 but rather groups of 3 weekly), there are many opportunities to convince yourself you are a total screw up.

It can be just as easy, or should be, to celebrate staying in the game, unafraid and open to what chance brings.  When my tender heart takes a poke I remind myself, “good to be feeling something!”

Don’t miss out on life!   It is meant to be shared.

Trix

“Tad, as in Tad the Cad on All My Children?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

About the name – pretty sure he’s been asked before by those of us familiar with the soap opera role played by actor Michale Knight. My Portland Tad is a homeless fellow I met him through the Whippets in the Fields.

My friends who know of Tad worry about me and our connection.  They needn’t.

The Fields is a rare undeveloped plot in Portland’s Pearl District that functions as a semi-official off-leash area.  In one particular spot it hosts a treasure chest of smells and discarded items. Most dogs and owners miss it, preferring the grassy fields for games of fetch. Whippets don’t play fetch. Leo gets the ball and then deposits it as far away from the person who flung it out there as possible. During Leo’s first days of living with us he and I indulged in games of Donut Dash in the long hallways of our Tulsa home. Leo would retrieve the greenish, tennis ball material, donut-shaped toy. He’d then quickly zip back towards me but always try to skate past me on the bamboo floors with his catch. I caught him, threw the toy back down the hall. The game continued.

The day I met Tad was a sunny, but slightly cool day. He was wrapped mummy-style in a green blanket on the pavement next to his heavily laden cart. The Whippets couldn’t resist exploring. They sniffed and poked around Tad during each of our first two walks of the day despite my effort to distract and chorale them. By mid-afternoon and our third walk, we found Tad standing, neatly folding his linens. I apologized for my nosey Whippets.

“I’ve found a huge bag of dog food. Would your dogs like some?” Tad asked.

Tad has eaten dog food, cat food, too. He definitely prefers dog food.

“Is it the oiliness of the cat food?” I asked Again, “Yeah.”

I worry often about financial security, especially starting over in my 50’s when many friends are retiring and embarking on fabulous trips I don’t see in my future. Tad didn’t once complain about his situation. He was, indeed, concerned about the disorder of his cart when I took his photo. Now when the weather here turns cold and wet, I text Tad. “Are you somewhere dry, warm?” He sends me a photo of an enclosed parking garage – his cart off to the side.

October 18th, 2010

Good and Monday in the same sentence?  You bet!  Not really a stretch today to say, “Great Monday!” when describing the 4th, 11th and today (each spent in a different city).

There is a lot of wisdom and good advise in fortune cookie messages.  I think. My last TWO promised the 18th would be lucky. “Expect the best and that is most often what you’ll get.” I carried that fortune in my wallet for YEARS.

At around 6 o’clock I went to the kitchen to get my purse for an OfficeMax supply run.  Hearing music from the corner by the window, I thought I’d left the stereo on.  When I walked closer, I discovered the music was coming from outside – 11 stories down and 2 blocks away.  I RAN to the elevator.

10.18 Dancing in the Streets Watch the video, if you’re in the mood to dance or want to get in the mood.

On my way south to OfficeMax, while there and even on the walk home I found more delights and surprises – JUST as I expected!

Expect Tuesday to be over-the-top!  And share the details with me.  xo, Trix

October 16, 2010

(Reading this is greatly enhanced listening to music links @ bottom of page – if you can multi-task!)

On days when it seems the good outnumbers the bad – DON’T STOP TO COUNT!

I was diagnosed this week with skin cancer (1), then arthritis (2) and wore my heart on my sleeve, when it might have been better closer to the vest (3). If less-than-wonderful things happen in three’s, would it be okay to ask for wonderful things in groups of 7 or 9, one of my other favorite numbers??  Three is becoming a wee bit of a crowd.

Speaking of numbers.  I took myself out for Chinese in Tulsa.  My fortune cookie read, “Your ability to find the silly in the serious will take you far. Lucky numbers 9, 13, 18, 24, 33, 46.  I went back to snag another cookie.  “Do not mistake temptation for opportunity.  Lucky numbers 18, 23, 32, 34, 39, 41.”  Woo Hoo!  Goal was to find one listing 52 (got a birthday ahead) but the 18th is right around the corner.  I am getting up early 10.18th to enjoy my double dose of luck!

The bad stuff, I figure, is the dues I gotta pay for the good.  Does that add up? My sister years ago, during one of the many times she tried to soothe my heartache or disappointment, insisted being happy all the time would be boring.  No it wouldn’t.  Bored is just not in my vocabulary and a charmed life would not invite it into my emotional 36 expressions. I think it’s a bit like the idea of heaven.  Great spin to put on dying.  Little wonder I gave up mass for Lent decades ago.

On a perfect 10.10.10 day (last Sunday) in a so-so warrior pose (and crescent pose) I was reaching for the stars to bring a bit more heaven to the beach. Stars, the way we envision them, are bright, pointy like things. One I snagged poked a bit of a hole in my tender heart but years earlier in another fun, unexpected, moment – dressed in flats and pants,  stacked up next to some hot babes (dressed differently) and facing an all-male judge panel (cruise ship experience – if you must know) I won the lip syncing contest prancing around to I Will Survive (my son Clay has since recovered from that experience of mom on the dance floor.)

The Trix is still here, dancing and singing and come the 18th, it won’t be just any Monday.  I got a loverly slice of heaven at a great price the last time I stretched.  I am reaching for the moon next time (and warming up at Sunday 9:45 yoga class in the Pearl)!

Look up to the sky tonight.  If you don’t see enough starlight, go where it is darker.  You will find there are more stars up there than you can stay awake to count. That is some kinda wonderful.

Postscript:  Two super people recently sent this info to me – This October has 5 Fridays, 5 Saturdays and 5 Sundays, all in one month.  It happens once in 823 years. Add it up!  And then November 1st is my birthday.

xo, Trix

Follow these 5 (!) leads to good things:

Loverly ~My Fair Lady: http://youtu.be/T-2CnRuk6Nk

36 Expressions ~ Funny Girl: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mRbIjcKB_CY

Yoga ~ http://www.yelp.com/biz/beach-yoga-with-brad-santa-monica

Some kinda wonderful  ~ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RijxCw2NZH0

Add it up ~ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=am8qrrZAtP4

REALITY, MEMORIES AND DREAMS OVERLAP. Deb Hillner

The seasons are changing again. In the past week Portland weather has dallied with fall, winter and summer but never quite the freshness of spring, the flirtatious nature of our most fickle time of year.  Instead the mood has been more the ripening, maturing, the rhythm of established and emerging patterns, routines.

Today it’s a rainy, quiet Sunday.  It’s the kind of day you start slowly over breakfast, reading a book or scanning a newspaper.  A burst of energy follows to set the household in order.  The laundry room hums, kitchen counters are scrubbed, a vacuum is given a spin around the house, trash is collected, pillows fluffed, dogs walked.  Then an eye is cast toward the week ahead.

Noon approaches. In the past I would be right where I am today, in my office.  I would be tidying up stacks of reading, invoices, media proposals, art production elements – doing all the things to ensure a running start on Monday morning and the piece of mind to savor an unrushed, lazy, restorative Sunday night.  This time a year ago Joel would have gone to the gym and returned from the market with armloads of vegetables, salty snacks and bottles of wine.  The TV or the CD player would be turned on in the other room and voices would mingle with the sounds of chopping and cooking, the scent of garlic would meander through the flat.  A rich stew would soon be in the pot, simmering for our evening meal.

A glass of wine deposited on my desk would announce the countdown to lunch and a movie – often a classic, sometimes a thrilling new mystery or a light-hearted comedy, if the week had been somewhat draining.

This sentimental journey of mine began today with dusting.  Every object in my home has a story, a memory.   A bit like my father, I early on assumed the role of Norvell family archivist.  Unlike him, I’ve learned to part with photos, cards… redundant or unused clothing and household items.  Still, even in less than half the space of my former Tulsa house, my collection of material items weighs in at TONS, not merely pounds – ask North American Van Lines. The objects are books, tables, art…  Everything is in its place though none of it selected or chosen to decorate but to amuse, to delight, to commemorate.

When Joel moved out and later when he moved back to Tulsa he took only essentials, leaving even his music collection.

I still qualify as a newcomer to Portland.  My belongings have logged nearly two years here, as have the Whippets; I myself only roughly half that time as business takes me to Tulsa monthly.  Here people do not know of my childhood overseas, they do not know of the over 19,000 hours I devoted to volunteer work for Tulsa arts and nonprofits.  They’ve not witnessed my knack for arranging furniture, events, life… To a degree this helps with the practice of “living in the moment” but I am the sum of many moments, of many encounters, many influences.

“It is important when people enter your home they immediately have a sense of who you are,” Joel said when I asked him why we weren’t dividing up household processions when we separated.

On rainy days, and Portland has its share, I smile as I survey the lush evergreens of the west hills beyond my office window, inhale the cooking scents of a mixture of nearby restaurants, enjoy the feel of the breeze blowing in through open windows and doors that are rarely closed because of the temperate climate, and pause to listen to the sounds of a lively, urban neighborhood 11 stories below.

This city that I am growing to cherish lacks but one thing:  the presence of friends who know me simply by the sound of my voice, the color of my eyes and our shared, intangible memories.

August 20, 2010

SKIN TO SKIN. That is the lyric that bounced around my head in the shower tonight.  I think it was Harry Belafonte accompanied by a sultry female vocalist … it was definitely something very sensual and it got me thinking…

How often are women expected to shave?

In this blog I’ve opened myself up to the bone (therapy) and desire (insatiable). So it is fitting we talk of SKIN and I want to know… not via email, but on this blog wall/ comment section because we just might liberate women:  How often are women expected to shave? Every opinion counts!

For men, “unshaven” for years has seemed the look – ranging from something well past what my dad knew as “5 o’clock shadow,” to unkept, untrimmed, bushy beards.  For women did a similar liberation happen?  Can I skip shaving legs and underarms everyday? Did I miss the memo, as I so often do?

Fact is my mother has asked, “Why do you shave everyday?”  I remind her hair growth varies between 51 and 89 years of age, to say nothing of society expectations and wardrobe.  I still wear dresses, especially in the summer. Many older women have liberated themselves and wear pants ( Katherine Hepburn deserves a mention; she definitely had a hand in making pants fashionable for women).  It makes a difference to one’s shaving routine.

My razor is orange and it vibrates, or it did.  Guess I need to find out what size battery it takes.  In the meantime I snagged a Groupon special for 3 very affordable laser hair removal sessions.  Stay tuned!

Always, Trix

The song! http://www.lyricsdownload.com/harry-belafonte-skin-to-skin-lyrics.html

August 17, 2010

There is a point of over thinking, over analyzing.  A point at which you trip yourself up too many times because you are walking forward with your eyes cast backwards.  Or you stay glued to a spot weighing the options instead of just picking one and then another and another until something works right.  Nonetheless, I’ve decided to invest in weekly therapy.  To afford it I have given up two things that keep me relatively sane: a housekeeper and fresh flowers from Sammy’s.

Early in my college career I was an urban studies major.  I would later take a fiscally responsible direction and switch to accounting the middle of my junior year so I could pay the rent when I graduated.  While studying city development, though, I was immersed in sociology and physiology classes.  Putting together the puzzle pieces fascinated me but I started college at age 16.  The concepts were fairly abstract to me.  What life experience did I have under my belt to make real sense of complex causes and reactions? It was much later that first-hand experience with autism and menopause would better explain human biochemical functions than any textbook. And there is nothing like real world experience with a sociopath or unscrupulous businessman to open your eyes to differences in human beings.

Throughout the following decades as people spoke of therapy I would wonder what it would be like to learn more about myself from an objective resource, someone to keep me honest, to lend perspective and knowledge.   All the while I wondered, “Would therapy be like so many quizzes you take, you know, the ones that are fairly worthless because you can guess what the “right” answer is and therefore easily manipulate the conclusion?”  Dissecting my psyche remained an idle curiosity as long as I led a charmed life, which I did.

Why do therapy now?  When a family member recently became somewhat unspooled and hurled hurtful things in my direction I saw the writing on the wall: my uncharmed life was establishing itself with more than a single sequence of “three bad things.” I was in for many multiples of three bad things.   I dialed in for a life raft!

Also I hate being depressed. It is absolutely draining.  There are so many things I’d rather do with my time.  Blue has never been one of my favorite colors. Never.  As muddled as I might be, I know sustaining a steady diet of anxiety, sadness and grief will not make me a more compassionate person nor make me more accepting of my mistakes. I have hit the point of diminishing returns with this venture. I cannot think of anything positive that will come of continuing to spiral downward.  It is past time to slip back into the girl that would sustain a giddy feeling for days and spread the cheer around to others.  She didn’t have a crystal ball but she thought the future held wonder, opportunity and hope and her spirit was infectious.  She’s been gone for so long I don’t know if I’ll get her back but every once in awhile I see a glimpse of her or hear the lilt of her singsong voice. Logic keeps chasing her away. Logic tells me I may not have another good shot at someone special to share life with and financial means to always keep a roof over my head – the things that sustained her through trials big and small in the past.

I may be approaching a few months of therapy with a pretty tall order but I’ve got one of my dad’s cloth handkerchiefs tucked up my sleeve and I won’t know until I give it a go. It’s a kind of balancing act.  While I’m learning some new skill sets during my workday, I am equally determined to pick up some life coping techniques on my Tuesday lunch hours.

August 14, 2010

It’s hot.  The dog days of summer when Sirius joins the sun in the sky have arrived, creating sultry temps and casting an eerie quiet over the neighborhood during the time of day you can almost hear the sidewalk sizzle.   The dogs uncharacteristically pant and on each shortened walk, pull me toward every neighborhood water bowl to be found.  In a dog friendly town, there are many; Leo insisted we stop outside the Pilates’ studio, then the bank, the bakery, the clothing boutique.

The heat has me thinking again of garden hoses, or more accurately the absence of one.  For only the second summer in my adult life I don’t own a hose.   This time last summer I had a 10-foot Ace Hardware hose hooked up on the balcony.  On sunny, hot days I’d dress in a swimsuit and happily set about watering the trees, bushes, flowers, pavement and myself before happily collapsing, refreshed and relaxed for a cocktail or meal prepared by Joel.  I gave that hose to the couple who now occupies the flat because my newer flat doesn’t have an outdoor spicket. My current patio plants must be maintained with a watering can.   It’s green and made of rubber, a gift from The Plant Lady, Gay Hendricks.

Watering plants each day now seems more a chore than a summer ritual.  I know, it’s all about attitude. I’ve debated filling the watering can and dousing myself with its contents, saving just a bit to sip from the spout but it seems a wanting substitute for a real garden hose on a hot summer day.

I don’t have to think hard to remember dragging a hose across the lawn or the courtyard, using my thumb to shape and direct a rainbow-producing cascade of water over thirsty plants in a sun-baked yard or spraying an unsuspecting poolside sun worshiper. And no Alpine spring water in a plastic bottle I have ever had compares with the cool, refreshing nectar of water from a garden hose on a dog day summer afternoon.

As long as there are summer days there will always be such simple pleasures.  I try to make  the most of them during this time of transition when losses can still overshadow days.  Each moment of pure joy cancels out a moment of sadness and at least an hour or two of indifference.

Hoses may be gone from my life but there is still Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Money Ice Cream in a waffle cone.  Catch ya later, grator!

Stay cool. Trix