I’ve decided that this holiday that I would volunteer as I did on Thanksgiving Day.  Even though it made me incredibly sad while doing so, I believe in my heart that this is the right thing to do.  So many folks are in such dire straits that the numbers “generated” by the powers that be don’t do justice to these families, individuals, elderly that aren’t making it.  So instead of cooking a holiday meal and inviting my orphan friends over , I will be my witty clown-self and try to spread a little cheer for those people who don’t have anything and assist in serving them their Christmas dinner and handing out gifts.

I do miss my Christmas tree, but the thought of dragging it out of the box and putting each branch into its slot, spreading, shaping each of these individual branches, laying on all the lights (and boy do I lay on the lights), then dressing it with all the pretty ornaments that I’ve collected over the years,  is exhausting just thinking about it!  But  I am having this internal battle and trying to convince myself that it’s okay not to put it up.

I love my Christmas tree, I could sit for hours in the dark just watching the lights twinkle.  Watch my kitty dive under the tree skirt when he thinks I’m not looking!  Fearing that he will knock the whole thing down (which miraculously since he has owned me, he never has) and then scolding him from scooting under the branches and knocking off the lower ornaments, which logically are paper mache so no damage done.  It makes me think of my father and my mother’s Christmas tree.

My mother’s tree and it was her tree done her way, was always beautiful, even when she too made the switch to artificial.  My motto which I think is pretty much like hers, is the more dressing, the less artificial it looks!  I know you think that sounds so garish, so over the top,  but my tree is far from garish and so was hers.  I am also not one of those folks who has a themed tree, color coordinated tree.  You know either all red, or silver, or all blue or white, Victorian, folksy, or deco.  I have a wonderful variety of traditional and modern hand-blown glass ornaments, most of which are one of a kind and it is so lovely when the tree is done.   You can ask anyone who has seen it.  But you say, where is that Christmas tree scent…candles my friend, lovely scented candles or a wonderful simmer pot on the stove filled with clove, cinnamon, allspice.  Besides it’s expensive to buy a live tree.

But anyway…my father use to sit in the dark and listen to Christmas music, Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby, some wonderful choirs;  all on LPs or some classical radio station and watch the lights of the tree twinkle and reflect from my mother’s breakfront.  He would never say anything  just sit quietly and enjoy the moment, I believe it was very Zen for him.    I like to do the same thing, but not this year, I’m just too weary.

Yes, Christmas is just three days away…and no tree.  Does this make me a bah humbug?

After another futile job interview, I stopped to treat myself to a cup of over-priced trendy coffee.  As I waited for my grande mocha latte, (which is definitely not in my budget and would have Suze Orman yelling at me) I stood next to a woman I went to high school with.  I said hello to her by name, saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes and chuckled loudly as she turned her back on me.

Funny how some folks never change.

During our recent conversation we both agreed that fifty is not the new forty no matter what Oprah says.  We also decided, since we are both fifty-something, that whenever we hear someone make that ridiculous statement, that we would be entitled to take a rolled up newspaper and unceremoniously whack the individual spouting this propaganda on the back of the head!  Of course this would be done without any remorse and we would run like hell after we committed this deed.  If caught, which would be likely, we would plead insanity or in my case…menopausal rage.

Our fifty-something bodies are doing things now that our forty-year old bodies never did and it’s not pretty!  We both agreed that age is just a number and that mentally we are still somewhere in our late thirties and our humor which has always been wicked is still intact.  But we also agreed vehemently that our bodies have betrayed us.

Neither of us have the finances that would allow us the luxury to join gyms, yoga classes, palates, have a personal trainer, seek out dermatologists, plastic surgeons, a masseuse that would knead our bodies like precious Kobi beef.  We are ladies who have to live the daily grind on a crappy income even before the economy fell into its current dark abyss.  I’m not saying that we don’t pursue a healthy lifestyle.  We both walk daily, in my case shuffle since a back injury and try to eat a healthy diet (she of course is better at this than I…damn my sweet tooth) and imbibe in all kinds of supplements.  But even following this kind of regime the march of time has still reared its ugly head.

We embarked on this topic of our bodies encroaching decrepitude because of a previous conversation regarding wrinkles.  Specifically the ones that are showing on our faces.  She had mentioned that she is noticing wrinkles above her upper lip, I of course am thinned-lip so no wrinkles there just this oddly unsymmetrical smile which has become more crooked with age.  Now I am not one to spend an inordinate amount of time gazing upon my visage in the mirror, but after this conversation it caused me to take stock and was I shocked at what I saw.

I use products, mostly those purchased in the drugstore.  I stay out of the sun (cursed with Celtic fair skin) and of course have been best friends with Lady Clairol since my early twenties (I have been going gray since I was a teenager).  I put on the war paint when leaving the house and going to the office and wear sunglasses even when it’s overcast outside.  But there they were…those cursed wrinkles.  They are at the corner of my eyes, under my eyes, on the sides of my nose and mouth and horror of horror when did my neck become like crepe paper!

Of course now I’m having a bit of an emotional moment and strip down to my birthday suit.  That in itself was worse than the night terrors I had the other night after reading a Stephen King collection of short stories!  When did this happen.

I discussed these horrific finds with my BFF on our recent call and as we went through the list of carnage that has occurred to our bodies with age, this of course turns into hysterical laughter and eventually twisted potty-humor which leaves us both gasping for air and trying not to wet our pants, but in the end we both concurred… Oprah is wrong, fifty is not the new forty.

He was handed his death sentence a year prior, but he kept it to himself; protecting us.  That burden he carried for a year before his heart failed him for the last time.  We didn’t know this until after he was gone.  Some would say that was a selfish act on his part, that if he had told us we could have made that year incredible, but you see we were and still are a family of secrets, a fractured family of secrets.

Was I angry when I found this out?  No, I was profoundly saddened by this fact.  I thought how frightened he must have been, how brave he had to be, how alone he was in this final journey, waking each morning wondering if this was to be his last.

In the end he fought a valiant fight to stay with us, but even he knew it was not to be.  I spoke with him privately the afternoon before he died and he told me he would not be coming home.  I didn’t want to believe him.  I told him I loved him and he said he loved me.  This was our good-bye.

He died the next morning just as the sun was starting to rise.  We were all with him, each of us telling him in our own way he could rest, that it was all right for him to go.  His going was devastating.  The sorrow is still with me as I’m sure it is with my siblings, my mother.

I can remember his face, although I have no pictures of him; his laugh which was a giggle, not a hearty belly laugh, but a giggle.  But the actual sound of his voice, the tone, pitch, timber…I can’t recall at all.

I think of him often.

I have the flu, with an on again off again  fever and because of this I couldn’t sleep last night.  Yeah, I did get the flu shots, both of them, regular and swine.  Apparently they didn’t work.  I wonder if I can get a refund on that.   But anyway, I couldn’t get to sleep last night and didn’t want to sit staring at the television so I decided I would read.  My theory being, my eyes would get heavy and I would be lulled into sleep.  It’s a reasonable assumption.

I love to read.  I love to read everything and anything.  I read fiction, non-fiction, poetry, history, children’s books, mysteries, ghost stories, sci-fi, blood, guts and gore stories, newspapers, soup cans, cereal boxes, anything I can get my hands on.  My library has titles by Dickens, Kafka, Thomas Hardy, Jane Austin, Proust, Camus, Poe, Frank Herbert, Ray Bradbury, T.S. Elliott, Dostoyevsky, Stephen King, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Eleanor Roosevelt, Dean Koontz, Ann Rice before she found Catholicism again, it goes on and on!  I have all kinds of books.

So I went to my bookcase and perused the titles and came across a dusty paperback by Stephen King, “Skeleton Crew”.  I thought this would be an easy read, collection of short scary stories.  I can do this.  They were just as I remembered them, real page turners and true to form my eyes got heavy and I fell asleep.  All’s well that ends well, right?

Well, one of the stories apparently made its impact on me, again…”The Raft”.

I remember the first time I read this story and it’s because of this story I don’t swim in anything that’s not chlorinated, ergo a pool!  My reasoning being if something was going to get me, eat me, tear me to shreds, swallow me whole, I would be able to see it and perhaps save myself.  I know it’s sick, but that’s my belief and I strictly adhere to this theory.

So what did I dream about last night that scared the bejesus out of me:  A big, black, floating, blob-like scum thing following me through the water, sucking me through the cracks of a wooden raft, on a lake, as my friends stood watching!!!  “The Raft” verbatim, in Technicolor no less!

Not only did I not sleep last night,  having turned on all the lights, checked under the bed and in the closets, I ended up on the couch with my fat cat for protection watching infomercials on the television until the sun came up!

Thank you Mr. Stephen King.

When I was a little girl, I spent a tremendous amount of time staying with my grandparents at their house in the Bronx on Hollywood Avenue.  I loved that house, my happiest memories are in that house.  The holiday dinners, the smells, the closets with clothes, umbrellas, shoes from days gone by, the front vestibule that I played house in, the sun porch with the lumpy day couch and all the plants, sometimes a birdcage filled with canaries, my grandfather’s chair that smelled of the pipes he sometimes smoked, his cigarettes (Kent’s I believe they were), the little sewing table in the stairwell that led upstairs to the bedrooms that the phone sat on; filled with buttons that my grandmother collected from clothes that no longer existed, the middle bedroom that was mine when I stayed with them, the back bedroom that was my Aunt Nellie’s and we weren’t allowed in, my grandparents bedroom at the front of the house, the basement with the painted red boiler and the second kitchen, my grandfather’s workshop with all those mysterious tools, sitting on the front stoop with my grandfather, Mr. Fenton, Mr. Massett, Mr. Haw, Mr. Locasio (forgive me the spelling of their last names), walking the dogs with my grandfather to the boulevard, sitting in the back courtyard with my grandmother, Mrs. Fenton, Mrs. Massett and Mrs. Haw; listening to their conversations, pausing when a plane passed overhead because you couldn’t hear anything at that point.  I loved that house, I could go on and on about my memories in that house.  I always felt safe, warm, content in that house.

But my favorite place in that house was my grandmother’s kitchen, her pantry with its great smells, the little black and white stool, the green cookie jar on the shelf, the tiled walls, the linoleum floor, the cast iron frying pans, the way my grandmother referred to the refrigerator as the frigidaire or icebox until the day she died.  My grandmother reigned supreme in her kitchen.  I wasn’t allowed to touch anything, just sit at the table and watch her make all my favorite meals, the soda bread, cookies, cakes from scratch, tapioca pudding with the great lumps of stiff egg whites, those holiday meals.  The kitchen was her kingdom and I loved being in it with her.  My introduction to tea was in that kitchen.

My grandparents had a cup of tea with every meal and in between too.  The first would be at breakfast.  Breakfast would consist of eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, juice (apricot juice, never orange..I believe it was in a pinkish can with a heart logo on it, I think the brand was Sweetheart, can’t find that juice now) or hot oatmeal or farina that had to be cooked on the stove…never cold cereal out of a box or instant anything.  It was always a full meal, I can smell it now.  I can see my grandmother in one of her house coats, not a robe, her hair still in pin curls, apron on in front of the stove, moving efficiently from the frigidaire to the pantry and back again to the stove.  Breakfast would be ready by the time my grandfather returned from walking the dogs.

My grandmother would always fix my grandfather’s tea in a creamy white over-sized coffee cup with a saucer (not a tea-cup) and he would always pour milk into that cup of tea so that it overflowed into the saucer.  I don’t know why, but he always did and after he drank a few sips would pour the overflow back into the cup.  This ritual was repeated at every meal, holiday’s included, same cup, same saucer.  I started drinking tea at that kitchen table.  My cup of tea was more milk than tea with plenty of sugar from the sugar bowl that was a permanent fixture on the kitchen table, the very bowl I would dig in and consequently be scolded for, but it was tea just the same.

At my parents home, the day also started with a cup of tea.  We didn’t have the kind of breakfasts my grandmother made.  It was either cold cereal, instant something or another, maybe toast, but always a cup of tea.  During the week it was my father’s duty to set this out for us before he left for work in the morning, get us up to be ready for school and out the door.  But tea was always the norm.  We drank mugs of tea, not dainty cups and saucers.  Everyone had their own mug and a war would start if you took someone’s mug for your tea.  I can remember those quarrels with my brothers and sister.

As adults at my mother’s house tea was the common factor between us all.  We would drink tea throughout the day.  You would stop by to visit and you always had a mug of tea or two or three.  It didn’t matter if it was 30 below or 90 degrees out, you always had a mug of tea.

In 1978 my grandfather died and then the following year my father.  Holidays were solemn and my grandmother’s house seemed so empty without these two men.  It was soon decided that it wasn’t safe for my grandmother to live alone in the big house in the Bronx anymore.  My mother built an addition to her home and my grandmother and grand aunt moved in.   Grandma had so much that had to be given away, donated or thrown out.  She gave me a teapot.  It was a large teapot, it was called a Brown Betty.  She had taught me how to make tea in that pot long ago.  It was something she did for me as a child, just me and Grandma.

First, you would swish boiling water in the pot and empty it, this was to heat it up. Next you would fill the pot with enough boiling water for at least two cups each (I would say it was a four cup pot) and add your loose tea or tea bags and let it steep for a while, depending on the strength of tea you preferred.

As the new owner of that teapot I thoroughly enjoyed the ritual of making a pot of tea for myself almost every night.  I had that teapot up until two years ago when I moved to my current abode.  It survived the move, but not the unpacking.

I don’t how it happened, but it did.  As I unpacked my Brown Betty from all its newspaper protection it fell from my hands.  I tried to catch it and it hit the corner of the counter and crashed to floor, shattered.  It had survived for well over seventy plus years and now it was in pieces on the floor.  One of my few cherished possessions.  I remember a friend was over helping me unpack and didn’t quite know what to do as I sank to the floor on my knees and cried.  She saw it as a broken teapot, I saw it as the last remnants of my time with my grandmother as a child.  I still have those shattered pieces wrapped in a kitchen towel in a shoebox on a shelf in a closet as if keeping them keeps my grandmother with me.

Whenever I’m out and trawling in second-hand stores or antique stores, I always look to see if there is a Brown Betty tucked away in a box or corner collecting dust waiting to be claimed, so far I haven’t found one nor have I purchased a “newer” teapot.  Maybe it’s time I should.

I have my own favorite mug for tea now, it’s cobalt blue, glass, over-sized.  It’s a good mug for a good cup of tea.  It belonged to a set of four that I found in a dollar store well over 15 years ago.  I broke one recently much to my dismay, it seems I’m getting clumsy in my middle-age.  So now there are just three.  I treat the remainder with care and if you are a lucky visitor, I might make you a nice cup of tea in one of them.  Nothing soothes the soul or warms the heart then a good cup of tea, maybe with a splash of milk in it.

He beckoned me out of my office one day, out of the blue, he had gotten one of the other girls in the office to get my attention.  I had never seen him before, but apparently he had been watching me.  I’ve always been extremely obtuse about those thing, still am.  He asked me a ridiculous question, directions to another department, one that I was sure he had just came from.  I was immediately captured by his eyes.  They were brown, but a smiling brown and he looked right into me.  I was so young and immediately smitten.

I was a tall, skinny drink of water back in those days, long dark hair, fair-skinned, freckled, crooked nose, hazel eyes, flat-chested  and couldn’t imagine why this man would take an interest in me.  I drank it up, I wasn’t  familiar with this kind of attention.  I would walk the hallways clutching files or something to my chest, eyes down, lost in my head most times.  I worked as secretary in a hospital, where there was a distinct pecking order.  Non-medical didn’t interact with medical.  It was just an unwritten rule.  I was naive, blinded by his gaze, his attention, foolish.

He knew where I lived and knocked on my door one evening and I was his for the next couple of months.  I knew after that first night that I meant nothing to him, but I craved closeness, tenderness even if it wasn’t real.  For that short time, I was pretty.  I never told anyone about him.  People assumed but I never confirmed or discussed.  He never said good-bye, just moved on.

It was thirty years ago, I wonder what made me dream of him last night.

The search for employment has become a task in futility, really, no joke.  I have had the unfortunate experience of passing some of my competition after or before an interview.  Young, fresh-faced, much more appealing visually than this middle-aged specter.  You feel the demeanor of the interviewer change as soon as you are introduced and you know right from the get go, regardless of your years of experience that you are now out of the running  for this one.  I scrub up really well too!

The publication of the jobless rate is oh so encouraging and not entirely accurate.  The reality of the jobless rate is much worse because it does not reflect the number of  those individuals who are no longer receiving unemployment benefits, but are still unemployed.  So the jobless rate is much higher than being reported and the competition for jobs even greater because you also have to factor in those new college grads.

I have reached out to everyone I know and they all mutter encouragement, say in low-voiced tones,  “oh no”, no longer make eye contact, don’t call or just avoid me at all costs, all of which makes me feel worse than I already do.

Had conversations yesterday and this morning with two more employment agencies.  Both have told me that they hope the market gets better by the new year, but don’t expect anything in your range now.  They could offer me temp positions if they become available.  The positions range from $10.00- $12.00/hour, which of course I said I would take knowing full well that I would have to find work in the evenings and weekends (as if that is at all possible) in order to supplement the low wage to continue to pay my rent, car insurance, put fuel in the old car, pay the utilities and feed the cat.

I have been applying for positions for the last 12 weeks and not one nibble.  Most postings are the old bait and switch by agencies…”the posted position is not available, but please come in and register with us”.  I do and so far I’m registered with 11 agencies, which you have to call daily to see if anything is available.  I’ve gone to the corporation websites and applied for positions directly.  Called corporations and made nice with the receptionist/switchboard person so that she/he would direct me to their in-house hiring agency in order to submit applications directly through them as well.  Hey, I’ve got the job search procedure down to a science!

I think the most unscrupulous of the job board postings are the those that read like legitimate jobs.  You know the ones, you apply to the post then you get a response which redirects you to some kind of MLM scam site, email blasting scheme, or better yet want you to pay a fee to use their job board or pay for a credit report as a stipulation of employment application.

I’ve tried all the “virtual” position sites and found I’m competing with providers overseas who bid for positions at hourly rates of  USD $1.50, sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less.  This means I would have to bid and win at least 30 or more of those jobs on a weekly basis to just make ends meet.  Additionally, I would have to do this daily, because these positions are for a day’s work, maybe a week (if you are lucky a month of more), maybe a couple of hours.  It costs me more in utilities than the actual payout on the jobs.

The fear comes in waves…You know, the good old panic attack, can’t breathe, can’t think straight, can’t sleep, crave salt, chocolate, a cocktail or two!  It’s all I can think about, get a job, get a job, get a job….My digestive system has taken to making the most bizarre sounds, but hey this could be a great weight loss program.

So, I slog on in my quest for permanent gainful employment, not knowing when the current gig is going to end.  Hopefully, I can squeeze at least 3 more months out of this position, at least until January when everyone “believes” things will get better.

No holidays this year, but hey there haven’t been any holidays in this humble abode for a very very long time!

My life in the past few years has been that of a very bad sitcom.  You know, the kind that gets canceled before the season is over.  You keep plugging along not realizing the train wreck is right in front of you, thinking all is going well, finally ahead of the game and then the axe falls.  Have not been given an end-date as of yet, hoping to find other employment prior to that.  The stress of it all has turned me inside out.

So here I sit, clearing out the mind chatter at 3:00 a.m., wearing my darkest sunglasses over my specs because I can’t put my contacts in (ah the curse of being nearsighted plus now farsighted) and the light from my screen is just exacerbating the head pain; praying for a quiet day because most of it will be spent laying still until this monster of a headache passes.  Mercifully, I will be at home today.

The last time this happened I was driving on the NYS Thruway and had to pull off the road to call someone to rescue me because now I’m blind.  Then I had to explain to the nice State Trooper, who has passed me 3 times and finally stopped, why I can’t drive and no, I’m not in need of an ambulance, it’s only a migraine and I can’t see…No, I’m not having a stroke and I really can’t talk to you anymore without you taking the risk of me being violently ill all over you…Sure you can see my license and registration but you are going to have to retrieve it yourself, but please don’t make me talk to you anymore…No, I’m not crazy or mentally incapacitated it’s just a migraine and could you please be quiet.  A friend who worked locally came to my rescue with his buddy and explained to the nice State Trooper, no she’s not on drugs and my buddy will drive her car back to her house and yes we really know her because now I’m completely uncommunicative, frozen in pain.  Thank you Mr. Migraine!

Just one more page in the lunacy of my life.  I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

Oh, on a lighter note, I just got an email informing me that the Yankees won the World Series last night.  I need to be told these things because I am completely sports ignorant.  It’s un-American, I know, but that’s a tale for another day.  So hurrah for the Yankees!