Pardon me... Your writer is showing.

My friend Robyn and I went to get pedicures yesterday. There is a lovely new manicure/pedicure salon in town here run by a former high-powered medical executive from the Bay Area named Lynn who decided to get out of the rat race and into a job she could love... so, she (rather incongruously, it would seem) surrendered her savings and opened a nail salon.

The salon itself is comfy, with white overstuffed armchairs, exacting sanitation practices and native English speakers as support staff. More often than not -- at least at this time -- the person who rolls up her sleeves and tames your unruly cuticles will be this bright, easy conversationalist with a master's degree and a history of a decidedly more glamorous and "important," if immensely less fulfilling, job.

Now, instead of being jaded by the greed and inequity she encountered in oncology, with self-aggrandizing medical professionals making increasingly ridiculous financial demands while people of all ages with less-than-ideal insurance were going without life-saving chemotherapy because of the prohibitive costs, she scrubs legs with pumice and displays an inspiring willingness to dump material success in favor of, well, success. How does she measure that success? Well, besides keeping the bills paid and the doors open, she gets a thrill from watching other "amazing" women put their feet up with a piece of chocolate or a glass of wine. She loves her job, and when she finds the glowing reviews of her work online and is moved to tears, she finally feels she makes a difference in the world. Her crowning achievement is helping someone become so relaxed and comfortable that they fall asleep, as one customer did yesterday.

I didn't fall asleep in the chair, but I did enjoy the time. It wasn't just because I felt pampered at a particularly stressful time in my life. It was also because I enjoyed the conversation and the change of perspective it offered. In my limited time spent in salons of various descriptions, I have noticed that one of the things that many women enjoy about salon time is the chance to engage in a little armchair talk-therapy with the person scrubbing their scalp or filing their nails, and that truly gifted salon personnel manage to make their clientele feel important, beautiful and refreshed, if only for an hour, but I never really thought of those jobs as fulfilling... I mean, who would choose to wash the feet and heads of strangers? Lynn would, and she's not above asking others to open the doors to their own dreams as she did to the salon.

The three of us were talking about various things -- generically about work, marriage, pursuing what you love -- when Lynn looked up at me and said, "What do you do? You seem like a writer." Robyn giggled, and I confirmed that I am Editor-in-Chief of a magazine. I was taken aback for a moment. Is it that obvious? Do I have indentations in my fingers from too much keyboarding? Do I have a computer screen burned into my retinas? Did I appear to take mental interview notes while we talked? It was almost embarrassing -- like she had just pointed out a bit of toilet paper that I had dragged in on my shoe.

The next thing that I blurted out was even more surprising than her accurate guess at my career choice, because it had the clarity of a therapy-induced cathartic moment: "But I don't write for me." Lynn then asked me what else I love. Music, singing. I love that, too.

I've been thinking about what I had said a lot since then. I think it means that I also have somewhere within me the yearning to, at least figuratively, do what she has done... pursue my passions in an unfettered way. To pull my emotional savings out of the bank and write a book, or sing with a big band again, to raise a child... to somehow be more than I am now.

I don't mean to make it sound like my current job and activities and my passions are incompatible. Fact is, my current job is what I make of it, and I choose how I spend my time outside of work, and both my work and my leisure opportunities allow for me to do some of what I love. Lynn, however, provided a reminder that I'm really only limited by my fears and my choices, so if I want more out of life, the only person standing in my way is the same one that looks back at me in the mirror.

My toes are prettier today, thanks to Lynn. And, it seems, my horizons are also a bit broader. To boot, the pedicure was free. As Mastercard says so incessantly, some things are just.... priceless.

Do I really need a yarn octopus?

I have bought in to Google's plan for ultimate world domination and use my personalized Google page as my homepage when I get online. In addition to having several blogs of favorite folks RSS fed so that I can see at a glance when there is something new there, I also, for some inscrutable reason, probably having more to do with Google presets than my preferences, have a little box for the WikiHow How-to of the day. This interesting box has 2 links in it to articles written by who-knows-who on the most fascinatingly bizarre topics. This conglomeration of amateur writers tackles everything from social graces to crafts to scientific devices.

Almost every day I fritter away a few moments reading the sometimes helpful, sometimes hilarious tutorials. Further, I confess that I have begun to contribute anonymously once in a while to the articles that pop up in my window. My contributions are quite predictable... I usually swoop in and correct grammatical faux pas and adjust punctuation, even in articles that are completely ridiculous from word one, like this one: "How to Make a Yarn Octopus."

Today, I clicked on that link and skimmed the page rather quickly, deciding that, for one thing, I prefer the sort of octopi with Styrofoam ball heads, and for another... what's that in the "Warnings" section?!

Before starting ask yourself "Do I really need a yarn octopus?". Of course you could always think of a use for it afterwards or give it to someone.

I stopped and, suppressing more than the urge to correct the rather atrocious abuse of English that was staring me in the face, I decided that buried in this trivial list -- of use to some, surely, but not otherwise enriching human experience by its existence -- was a tidbit of sagacity completely worth my notice. I'm not sure, given the collaborative nature of this project, whether the sage was Maverick 97, Sondra C, Knu94, Krystle, $ternhe, Dvortygirl, Jack H, Booky, Anonymous, C#Freak, Ally F, DeFender1031, Martyn P, or Zack, but someone hit on a rather important fact: before making a yarn octopus, wouldn't we do well to ask if we really need it?

Fortunately, the yarn was still safely in the closet when I reached my very personal decision about this. No. I do not really need a yarn octopus. My life does not depend on it... (Can you imagine the ransom note demanding "$3000 in gift cards to Michael's and a yarn octopus made from Berroco alpaca yarn in beet root -- don't skimp with me and use Lion Brand or the goldfish gets it!"?) No matter how fun it would be to think of a use for it "afterwards" (attaching it to the end of a mop handle and using it to clean the ceiling fan comes to mind as a real possibility) and no matter how gracious the recipient of my generous homemade gift might be (who has a birthday coming up?), I do not really need a yarn octopus. Then again, I don't need much besides food, air, shelter, love and God's grace -- and what fun would life be without some of the things we'd be hard-pressed to argue that we really need?

So, knock yourself out -- make a yarn octopus even though you don't really need it. I just might. Later. When I have time and energy and yarn to kill.

May I suggest, however, the actual Berroco pattern? If you are going to do it, please do it right.

Tricks of the new trade

We discovered on Wednesday night that there is a gas station about a third of the way "home" from Dan's new job on the freeway route (as opposed to the country highway route) that sells gasoline for $3.73 per gallon. There are at least 3 stations in that area that fight for the business of long-distance drivers and truckers. (These are the sort of stations with trucker showers.) We missed the cheapest of them, but we stopped shortly past it and found gasoline for $3.75 per gallon. With several more drives like that in store, it is nice to find simple ways to save a little. When we got home that night, prices were $3.98. The other nice thing about this all is that the stations are just a few exits from the town we think we may settle in eventually, so it's concievable this could be a long-term benefit. I'm sure in the context of So Cal gas prices, this must seem especially nice. We're duly appreciative.

The Stuff of Our Lives

I'm amazed sometimes just how easily I become overwhelmed. Sometimes it's too much bad stuff. Sometimes it is too much good stuff. Times like this, it's just too much stuff.

Today was Daniel's first day at his new job. He had positive things to report about it when we chatted on the phone -- he from his room at the Best Western, I at home wishing he were here. That's good stuff, and bad stuff.

Last night we spent about six and a half hours in the car. Well, that's not quite right. We were outside of the car to visit a shop for 10 minutes, to see the townhouse where we'll probably be spending our weekdays beginning August 2, and to get food and gas. However, the vast majority of the evening was spent in the car surrounded by torrential rain. Daniel pointed out one man who was trying to get his kids into their car in the parking lot during some of the worst of it, and the children were nearly overcome by the wind. The already long drive was lengthened by the weather, as we and the other drivers crawled along with hazards on, able to see only a few feet in any direction. That's scary stuff.

The townhouse is pretty nice, for what it is -- temporary housing that allows us to be together while we figure out where to go next in our lives. I don't like to be separated, so, in that sense, it's fabulous. However, it's right in the middle of the city, so we have a view of the wall that separates us from the street. That will take some getting used to again, though I think I will appreciate the proximity to just about every imaginable kind of shopping and restaurant. That's mixed stuff.

There's other "stuff" I don't want to write about because I wouldn't want venting about details of work or people that happen to be annoying me at present or circumstances I can't change to cause needless alarm when all I need is to blow off steam. Someone left the whistle on my spout and turned up the fire. Suffice it to say that I would like to tell some of the stuff in my life to stuff it.

I look forward to the good changes that are upon us, but I look forward even more to a time when where we are on the planet and what we are doing becomes, well, boring. That's comfortable stuff. Right now, it's the stuff of my sweetest dreams.

Sunday afternoon we went to a Red Wings game...

OK, so it was the Rochester Red Wings versus the Durham Bulls, playing fine AAA Baseball. This was my first baseball game ever; Nikki couldn't believe it, because she grew up attending Angels and Dodgers games. We didn't get a seat under the roof, but the sun wasn't too bad (it was mostly to our backs). This is a smallish ballpark, so really the only bad seats were the ones in the outfield, facing the sun. We started out with bratwursts, and I had a couple Yuenglings. Later, sometime before the seventh inning stretch, I went and bought some more low-nutrition snacks, including, for Nikki's pleasure, some peanuts and crackerjacks. The Bulls wound up winning the game, 3-9.

Lest I should forget, we attended the game on the birthday of Wool E Bull, the team mascot. I'm not sure how one calculates the date of birth of a stuffed costume, but Wool E's mascot pals came to celebrate: Mr. & Mrs. Wolf from NC State, the UNC ram, the Duke Blue Devil, the mascot of the Burlington Royals from the rookie league, the mascot of some speedway in the Burlington area, etc. etc., and... Stormy, the Hurricanes mascot! These mascots competed in events such as running the bases, a tug-of-war, sumo wrestling (Wool E vs. Stormy)... somehow, Wool E always managed to win.

Lessons in (Im)patience

I remember an old song that we would sing at church growing up. In fact, when I hear it in my head, it's in my mom's voice. It's taken pretty much verbatim from Isaiah 40:31:

They that wait upon the LORD
shall renew their strength;
they shall mount up with wings as eagles;
they shall run, and not be weary;
they shall walk and not faint.

with the added phrase:

Teach me Lord, teach me Lord, to wait.

Whether or not we know how to wait gracefully, we've been asked to wait on several rather significant things of late. We're still not able to try again for babies, we don't have any idea when or where Dan may find a job, we don't know where we may be living in a few weeks, and a whole lot of things about the future seem to just get a resounding "wait" when we ask what to do.

My parents will tell you that patience has never been my strong point. However, the moments I decide that it's okay to just be here waiting -- to not have the answers, and to not demand to have them or to force the issue of what we will do by just launching out and doing something without any sense of conviction that it is the right thing -- the more I discover that it is somehow all okay. The bills are getting paid, the roof is still over our head and we are finding that our attitudes about a lot of things are subtly different than they were before.

Case in point: Daniel says that for the first time in his life he dreads the weekend and that Monday can't come quickly enough. I, on the other hand, still start dreading Monday on Friday afternoon, but the effect is mitigated by the same factors that have driven the change in Dan. For him, the weekday means new possibilities for work leads and developments -- interviews, calls with feedback and other hope-wielding moments. For me, the weekday still spells more stress and the routine of work, work, work. But I find myself impatient to know what the latest is every time caller ID shows one of the numbers I now recognize as his recruiters, and I sometimes wish that the weekend weren't such a wasteland, because it's the time we have to think about all we don't yet know.

Still, we're happy. We're still prone to break out in impromptu dancing in the grocery store aisle. We're still talking to each other and giggling often. We're still sickening some of our acquaintances with our rather newlywed zeal. We ARE rather impatient for the next step to be revealed, but we are also discovering that waiting is not the worst thing we could be asked to do.

Now that we've learned that lesson... isn't it about time to get on with things? ;)