Shame and embarrassment prohibit me from detailing my job. This, though, I can say: I'll miss Lisa. She's the first person in the three months I've been at this job with a revolving door with whom I feel a connection, shared intelligence and awareness past the Sleepwalkers norm. Many of the folks who have passed through are dumber than doornails, and not everyone dumber than doornails has passed, to the detriment of work flow and production. She also has all her teeth. For some reason, this job draws folks with missing front teeth like honey draws the bees. Speculating on why could be entertaining fodder for a posting, if I were in a better mood ...
Anyway, Lisa's off to greener pastures, a better job with better money out of financial necessity and boy do I understand that. Though her presence has been short-lived, I've welcomed having a work buddy and gal pal who's if not on the same page, at least on a page from a similar book. She's helped draw me out of my shell and brought some smiles, laughter and meaningful conversation to a drab industrial place, to say nothing of work so mind-numbingly dull and tediously repetitive that self-medication should be listed as a job requirement. Her departure means I return to the robotic isolation that's part 'n' parcel to this job.
Lisa, it's been great havin' ye there and I hope we can continue on past these cold gray warehouse walls.
You can take the girl out of Japan but you can't take Japan out of the girl. And despite my (not entirely enthusiastic) presence in the U.S., one of the Japanese traditions I most anticipate is The Great Cleaning that precedes New Year's Day -- otherwise known as o-sooji. (The o is honorific denoting greatness, sooji means cleaning.)
Traditionally, New Year's in Japan was a time to wipe the slate clean of the cobwebs: debts, grudges, unfinished business as well as the thin filaments hanging from the ceiling and dust bunnies behind refrigerators. Much has gone the way of the samurai dressed in warfare armor but the spirit of the tradition remains intact.
So on the days leading up to New Year's, workers, business owners and homemakers commit their time, spray bottles and buckets, cleansers and rags, dusters and mops, and hands and knees to cleaning their properties. Homes are scrubbed top to bottom -- windows too! Employers "knock off early" so employees can clean their desks. Shopkeepers from the operators of the small noodle shops and izakaya (Japanese pubs) to the large department stores will emerge from behind closed doors and be seen sweeping steps, sidewalks and stoops. Mostly men but many women too will be scrubbing their automobiles spotless and placing on the hood small ornamental pieces of greenery representing fresh tidings.
It's a glorious time of the year.
Oh were I so lucky to include settling of debt in my o-sooji! But the extensive cleaning I can do. Did do in Japan. Continue to do each year. By nature I'm a very neat and tidy person so the results of o-sooji are imperceptible to anyone but the sharp-eyed. But I can feel and see the difference ... and speaking of seeing, that sliding glass door directly before me that's been subjected to stormy winds and rains could benefit from a good Windexing.
The question isn't to sooji or not to sooji ... but when will I find the time being tied up with work some 12 hours a day. Perhaps the o-sooji gods will be forgiving if I miss the windows this once ...
Well, it's back to long workdays and time's short and I've little to say but this: Management cannot be confused with maturity. At work the situation with red plastic crates utilized in shipping has become critical. That'll mean nothing to most of you so here's an analogy: It's like printing a newspaper without ink.
And the owner knows it, yet seems unperturbed. Yesterday both a lead supervisor and I were impressing upon him the need for more crates. His response makes a good line in a book or a blog: "I'm not in the business of crate manufacturing."
Sheesh. Management definitely does not equal maturity.
The Christmas That Wasn't has cast a pall over the home. He feels badly, I feel badly. Processing and time will be the salve but I cannot say with certainty that all in our enthusiastic and happy shared living will be restored to their former state. In my current retreat, I'm less inclined to participate in happy activities of a "family" of two.
There's a little more to the Christmas tale. Several nights prior, on one of our infrequent shared evenings at home, I put out the word on a plan for a small and very casual Christmas-y meal and extended an invitation, which he accepted . Nothing fancy, mind you, but a treat for two who too often dine out of cans or microwaveable packages in front of a computer or TV: chicken parts roasted with fresh rosemary, sage and thyme, baked potatoes in chunks and carrots.
And for dessert, a pint of Ben & Jerry's Caramel ice cream (a favorite of his) and for me pistachio. And, as a reallly special treat, I sprung for a bottle of Bombay Sapphire Gin and vermouth for martinis, which we each love. It was a pleasure preparing and shopping for this simple meal. I even lucked out and snagged a small roaster pan, the sturdy kind that grandma has, at the thrift store for $2.99!
Then, as I was getting started on the cooking, he announced he had a hankering for pasta. And so the meal, the shared version, was off. I proceeded with it but it wasn't the same having a delicious fresh-herb roasted chicken alone sitting on the floor in front of the TV.
So, between that and the tainted Christmas, I wasn't overeager to accept his offer to share his company ham. I wasn't being malicious or retaliatory. The spirit of sharing, I recognize, is dampened. Instead, I went to the pub for a possible rendevous with a friend. Then, when that didn't happen, I scuttled off elsewhere and a grand time was had. When I returned home late, the ham was still in the fridge, the house dark save for the small overhead stove light and the roommate in bed.
It's feeling a little glum around here.
Carlos is so funny. Here I've been writing him that being "just friends" as he's suggested -- yeah, right! -- wouldn't work (and it truly wouldn't though I keep looking for a loophole) and he respects that, so he says. Then he presents this crazy notion of maybe meeting somewhere down the road for dinner and plus if you get the drift. And I'm thinking, partly exasperated, partly laughing, haven't you heard a word I've said?! I guess it's my own fault, that I brought it upon myself by sending photos of me in my normal life instead of the black prison employee garb he knew me in. Which begs the question what the hell am I doing?
I don't know. Or maybe I do. I'm doing one of those things I do best and with adroitness extraordinaire: pushing here and pushing there and looking for soulful loopholes. And for ways to be with Carlos that don't involve The Forevermore. Deep down I don't know that that can be done (answer: it can't be done). Now he not only wants to continue our letters but to talk on the phone! Which introduces a whole new dimension of Carlos In My Life. It just ... it just isn't the path I want to be on. Yet it's so damn hard to say no.
Soooo. Listen guys and gals, there's a whole lotta stuff wrapped up with this that I couldn't possibly explain (neither am I inclined). You'll just have to take my word for it when I say this is one motherf***ing challenge, a test of my will to carry on with the life path that does not involve Carlos.
I'm not given to wearing my heart on my sleeve or public disclosure of the more personal aspects of living but am making an exception today because (a) a blog without some diversity couldn't be my blog and (b) he's heavy on my mind -- damn! in my fucking aura even! -- for the letter I've recently received and the response I need to pen.
Sometimes writing about stuff helps you figure out what to do. It hasn't been the case on this occasion, save the question I ask to myself: What the hell am I doing? In two short months, Carlos will be back in the free world. I couldn't be happier or more excited for him. But come on, dinner and dessert ... what is he thinking?! Probably the same thing I am: passion without boundaries or end.
I was just over at my old blogging neighborhood catching up. One of the great pleasures in my life is reading the blogs of friends and fellow bloggers, be they in or out of the "neighborhood." It truly brings joy, the shared interactions and comments, the presence of others here and me there. Though I had a lousy Christmas, I'm not without gratitude or awareness of blessings. I count each one of you who reads that which I write -- and good lord how I love to write! -- as a blessing; to each of you who comes this way by intent or by chance, my thanks and my gratitude.
Not from the slow-paced imbibing of Poor Man’s Mulled Wine during my (questionably) Merry Christmas, no; it’s an emotional hangover. When my roommate returned home, we discussed it, rather, he spoke, quite apologetically, and I listened, for my emotions rendered me speechless. As I said to him, and all I could say, was that I need time to process it. He seemed to understood that. It’s important that I do for myself and for our shared residence in this very tiny apartment, where there’s hardly room for storing a vacuum cleaner -- or emotions.
Spend a Christmas alone in America and you’ll discover how little there is to do! A movie didn’t appeal. I made the best of a bad situation and to the best of my ability turned it into one with positives, simple they be: sipping warmed red wine sprinkled with cinnamon, browsing the Vox community, laundry (if you can believe that!) and expressing inner gratitude for where I am, the Pacific Northwest ... for I’ve trodden many an arduous, rocky trail, all of which have summarily led me to the place I know is home. Sure, some tweaking’s necessary but the region is right. Each day I look out the window into the dreary and typically wet Pacific Northwest skies with gratitude and rare contentment, a sense of my inner being coming to rest. This makes each day marvelous, even a Christmas sad and alone.
Today’s a new day, a day to get to work on that resume in serious need of revamping and polishing. It's a daunting task and I'd almost -- almost -- rather have a root canal. But it's necessary and called for as yesterday I stumbled upon a copywriter-ish opening in town, a most rare event in this blue-collar town with low wages.
It’ll be a challenge to condense, even more challenging to put a positive spin on crap jobs that've accumulated into a noticeable unsightly heap these past years, which is not only a source of deep shame but embarrassing. One viewing of my resume would make any potential employer suspicious that I’d undergone a lobotomy ... for all work up to 2004 is of impressive caliber ... then everything that follows suggests that I fell off the back of the hay wagon, cracked my head open, then sauntered off dazed, leaving half my brains in a spill on the road. Or, to quote a friend, as if I’d been away abducted by aliens.
Back on Planet Earth now, I’m going for this job with purpose and intent to get my life back on track.
Still, if anyone can suggest terms for housekeeper and food demonstrator that glow professionally, suggest on!
Here alone in my apartment I am not supposed to be.
Another Christmas shot to heck, down the drain.
It wasn't supposed to be like this, not this year, not this time. Finally, for the first time in years, I didn't have to work Christmas (and generally at a job I hate, which is a pretty sad way to "celebrate"), thanks to the holiday falling on my normal day off.
Finally I'm in a location I love and a home I'm pretty happy in. And I had an invitation from my roommate, Jamie, to join him and his family, including two children, in a town an hour away.
"No one should be alone on Christmas," Jamie said.
"I'll call you on Christmas morning for directions," I said with happy anticipation.
It promised to be the best Christmas, the only one of true value and significance, in 13 years. (Which is not to diminish last year's with family in Utah.) Finally, a Christmas where I wasn't working or alone or someplace I'd rather not be.
I call. Get his voice box. Leave a message. An hour passes and no phone call. I call again. Voice box again. I am sitting at my table in my Christmas clothing, a sharp red shirt and black pants, waiting for Jamie to call to give directions.
Silence. Nothing.
It is into Christmas afternoon now. My roommate never called. And it is too late now to make the drive in time for their holiday ham. The tears of disappointment have abated. I am new in town and have only one friend, and he's already booked elsewhere.
I have no backup plan because I didn't expect my roommate to fail on Christmas. "No one should be alone on Christmas," he said, knowing what that felt like. He's let me down on other occasions, none quite as significant as this though. I certainly know now not to depend on him for anything I truly need.
***
And so that is how on this Christmas Day I drink Poor Man's Mulled Wine -- warmed red wine with ground cinnamon from a shaker. (Proper mulled wine includes a cinnamon stick, cloves, orange or ginger slices.)
This is how I come to listening to Mannheim Steamroller's "An American Christmas," a program of tales and music, on the radio.
This is how I come to getting out of my holiday clothes and into my standard pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved cotton red shirt. It is Christmas after all.
This is how I come to Vox.com seeking company.
This is how I come to know my answer to the Vox Question of the Day: What's the best gift you gave? Forgiveness of my roommate. I haven't, but I will need to, and I will, in time. And I'll never count on him for anything again (unless it is disappointment I seek). It's gonna be hard to look at him when he gets back, even harder to talk or share these tiny living quarters with the same goodwill and spirit (hence the importance of forgiveness).
This is how I came to be alone on Christmas.
This may be how I come to a drunken state on Poor Man's Mulled Wine.
Merry Christmas to all, and especially to those who are drunk or alone or both. Wherever you be, from Russia to Tasmania, you are not alone.
Argentine: Feliz Navidad
Bengali: Shuvo Naba Barsha
Catese: Meowmeow Meeeow-oww
Chinese: (Cantonese) Gun Tso Sun Tan'Gung Haw Sun
Finnish: Hyvaa joulua
Galician: Bo Nada
German: Froehliche Weihnachten
Dogese: Woofwoof Woff Woff
Hawaiian: Mele Kalikimaka
Japanese: Kurisumasu omedeto
Norwegian: God Jul
Philippines: Maligayang Pasko
Turkish: Noeliniz Ve Yeni Yiliniz Kutlu Olsun
Vietnamese: Chung Mung Giang Sinh
I awakened after an odd dream this morning. I was sitting at a table with two authorities at a passport-issuing office, applying for a passport (which in my 3-D life I have). My laptop was with me, closed, on the table. The main character, a man, decided not to issue the passport without reason or merit; instead, personal whim dictated his decision. This had me rather upset. More upsetting was that without passport, I was grounded. Stuck. Trapped. Boxed in. Plus unable to make two trips to two separate individuals that were being contemplated. When the male officer saw how emotional and upset I became, he agreed to consult with his supervisor, but the outcome of those talks I never learned because I woke up. Grounded grounded grounded and trapped within the continent's borders. Not pretty.
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