Lea Lane's Open Salon Blog

Two Fantasy, Faraway Thanksgivings & What I Learned

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 11:11:45 -0500

My ex married a university president and lived in a historic house where leaves were raked by others and fireplaces crackled picture-perfect below important art and the table was set with Lenox and Steuben. My sons usually spent Thanksgiving at that table.

I adapted to that reality. In the years between my marriages –the 1980s and ‘90s -- I’d usually wind up at a friend’s Thanksgiving celebration as a stray, and often had a fine time, except when it rained and I’d have to maneuver in the dark, on oak-leaf slicked winding roads back to my Westchester house.

When I was in a relationship, I’d share Cornish hens and candlelight and rose-colored champagne. Many years I’d invite singles over and we’d stay up most of the night in our sweats, and talk about our exs and our kids and how the holiday season had to be endured through Valentine’s Day.

And sometimes in those years between my marriages when my kids were at my ex’s, I’d have a truly memorable time.

Right now, when the economy has rocked me and I am adapting to a new lifestyle, I find it especially interesting to look back to two unusual Thanksgivings from the last decade of the last century. And by looking back at them, I realize how much things have changed for me. They seem like fantasies. But they are real.

Solo Thanksgiving in Malaysia

I was working as executive producer on an interactive language project for the Defense Department in Southeast Asia. Most of the crew headed off to dive; I chose to go to Malaysia for the Thanksgiving break. In Kuala Lumpur I hired a car with a driver who could speak some English and we traveled throughout the country. Past endless, neat groves where palms were grown for oil. Past tiny indigenous communities with houses on stilts and families sitting bare around firepits.

I ate my first durian here, a creamy, foul-smelling fruit -- half peach, half onion -- bought at a stand on the side of the road. Locals seem to love the durian; most others disdain it. (I disdained.)

On Thanksgiving day I arrived at a timbered lodging in the Cameron Highlands, the cool uplands where row after row of tea plantings threaded the hills. At dinner I sat alone, and ordered chicken, feeling rather sorry that the driver didn’t want to share the meal. The waiter brought the chicken to me with a smile. And then I smiled, and grinned and laughed. And felt thankful.

He had stuck a little paper American flag in the thigh.

Thanksgiving with a Texan on a Yacht in the Caribbean

The man was from Texas, in “arbitrage.” I wasn’t sure what that was, but it was enough to place him in an office high in New York’s Seagram building. He called me “lil’ lady” as in, “Driver, take the lil’ lady back to the hotel.” He had been active in politics at one time, and fit my need back then for a take-charge guy. I sought father-figures unlike my father, and the more powerful the better.

Texan could get tickets to any Broadway show, fifth row center, last minute. He’d eat at one of two restaurants almost every night: 21 or the Four Seasons, And when I’d dine with him and get up to go to the ladies room he’d slip a $5 bill in my hand to tip the attendant. He had things covered.

So when Texan invited me to spend a long Thanksgiving weekend with him on his “fishing boat” in the Caribbean, it was an easy “yes.”

We flew to St. Thomas, where the boat was docked. Well, he called it a boat. It had three levels, a king-sized bed, a marble bath with shower and tub, and a kitchen as big as mine back home. Just us -- and a captain and a cook.

By day, we’d cruise around the Virgin Islands, reggae and rock blaring into blue-on-blue sky and water. He’s ask where I wanted to go, and then say, “Cap’n, take the lil’ lady to the Baths.” Or “Cap’n, dock the boat by the best reef near St. John.” We snorkeled among rock formations and coral. He’d fight with a big fish for hours at the back of the boat, while making deals on a cell.

At night we’d dock and eat in the dining room at the Ritz Carlton, just a path away, and later we’d look up at the stars on the boat’s front deck. Except for Thanksgiving. That night we drove up into the hills of St. Thomas to a shack with surrounding tables. The place was packed with locals, including lots of Americans living on the island. We consumed goat and fish and rice and fruits and beer. And we talked of Thanksgivings past.

And after I returned to the states I never saw Texan again. That’s the way it went in New York in those days. I didn’t care. I loved the rush.

A couple of years after the Texan I married a very different kind of man, a man who could care less about material things, a man I adored, and then lost too soon. And after eight years, this year I am again with a kind and humble man.

Life gives us many reasons to give thanks, whatever our current problems, be they loss or pain or poverty. Things can turn in a minute. Your priorities can change. You can figure out what really matters and shake the past. One Thanksgiving you’re on a dark road alone; another in the hills of a faraway land, laughing with a stranger; the next in a warm room with a good man who says, “I want to make you happy.”

You never know.

Why I Stay Here

Sun, 15 Nov 2009 10:11:45 -0500

Stuffjournalistswrite/wordpress.com

With all the bitching and flouncing and analyzing going on around here lately, I’ve thought about why I've stayed on OS for over a year.

This rings true for me. We all have different reasons, and it would be interesting if you shared.

In no particular order, I write on OS because:

I want to create an accessible record of my existence.

I like being associated with Salon.

It keeps me out of trouble.

Writing gigs that offer pay have dried up.

I need some drama in my life. (Thanks, Nikki.)

When people ask what I do all day I have something plausible to tell them that’s associated with Joan Walsh.

OS brings me loads of facebook friends.

It keeps my hands and mind occupied so I don’t eat all day.

It’s a great excuse to not exercise.

I have a day job to support me. (Sort of.)

I like getting ratings and comments.

I like giving ratings and comments.

I enjoy feeling that I am in a community at the click of a mouse.

I have gained virtual (sometimes morphed into real) friends.

I hope to gain more friends.

Friends here offer support.

I meet interesting people I never would have the chance to meet in real life.

It gives me exposure for possible paid assignments (long shot, agreed).

Ageism is minimal. I feel I am me, not older me.

I’ve learned to have empathy for troubled OS writers, without enabling them.

I can deal with the mememe memes and flame wars by concentrating on other posts.

At this point I don’t expect anything but a platform and don't define myself by the editors, so I’m often pleasantly surprised.

I think of OS more as a friend with benefits than a jilting lover (thanks, Lonnie, for that analogy).

I can now pick up breath mint money from adsense.

I haven’t found a better fit for me on the web.

It’s a pretty safe place to rant and expose, and to get some wise feedback, good and bad.

I can read/post while watching junk TV, eating a turkey sandwich and talking on the phone.

I like seeing my writing published and read.

OS encourages me to write.

OS brings me to some great writing.

I need to write.

The Amateur Analysis of My "Wet" Dream

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 08:11:47 -0500

freewebs.com

(Exactly as I remember, on awakening, with my analysis/comments/questions in parentheses.)

I was at a rehearsal of a Broadway show like Bye Bye Birdie or Grease. A retro show, in color. People were dancing, stacked on steps (I had recently watched Deal or No Deal.) A Ricki Lake-like woman was dancing the lead, kicking her legs, and I was being told by the producer how good she was, except she didn’t seem to kick very high and slipped off the step. The understudy was called. (Dancing With the Stars had recently changed partnering because of illness.)

I had to leave in a bus/ship (My many travels –bus, ship, plane –they start to meld after awhile.) I reluctantly boarded the vehicle but I called out and asked a person to give me the names and info of those actors left behind. She agreed and I felt better. (Don’t like loss?)

The bus was luxurious and wide, in gold and black/brown hues, with separate reclining leather seats like in a private jet. A seat was empty in the front, but I walked to another one in the back, (My inclination since my childhood in the south, pre-Civil Rights Act -- to go to the back of the bus?) I sat down. The bus was filled with people I didn’t know. I realized I had to pee.

A spiral staircase. I walked down to look for a bathroom. Below was a confined world, off the vehicle, with lots of rooms and light-filled space.

I finally found a bathroom with endless stalls. It was the ugliest, grungiest, filthiest place you could imagine. The stalls were cluttered with tissues.

A little old lady was cleaning the floor, pushing a broom through about a foot of grime, which stirred up in clouds.(I was once in a fetid public toilet in Turkey and a little old lady with a stained straw broom hit me with it on the leg when I didn’t leave a tip.)

I felt desperate. I went from stall to stall. Most of the toilet lids were down. (I didn’t want to scare myself.) The place was empty (At least there was no line!)

Sitting outside. It didn’t occur to me to pee behind a bush. (It was a dream, and I guess I couldn’t wet the bed so the story had to enfold. In real life I would have gone behind a bush, dammit.)

I found a big blue bowl and asked a blond and pretty woman (Sandra Stephens?), if she wanted to work on creating “a pot to pee in.” A man sitting nearby suggested we add water and make it more like a real toilet. (My bidet?)

I don’t know why I didn’t act on this but I couldn’t. (I was still sleeping and having to pee so I guess that solution wouldn’t do)

“Get her help on other things,” the man said. This world seemed to need lots of solutions. (I just finished redoing my son’s apartment. The health care bill? World hunger? Guilt?)

Exploring some more to find a bathroom. So I walked awhile and I found a corporate suite, and the receptionist was -- Tom Cruise. (I can’t stand the smug little sonofabitch. I must have really felt hopeless). I asked Tom if I could use the bathroom there, and that I had done some work for the corporation. He smiled that entitled smile and said “no, find another place or hold it in.” He said he’d been in that very situation. He kept smiling as I left. (I hate him more than ever.)

I was stuck. I had to go.

(So I woke up, and hurried off to pee, then grabbed my computer and wrote this post! I don’t often have such clear recollection and I wanted to get the dream down before it shimmered away.)

Reflections on a Windy, White-Knuckle Landing

Fri, 6 Nov 2009 08:11:52 -0500

wpclipart.com

October 7, a humid, hot morning in South Florida. I was flying solo to NYC to see my children. The plane was delayed at the gate for about an hour due to windy conditions in New York. But after an extra half an hour at the gate, we took off, and I settled in my cramped window seat near the back of the plane. A precious empty seat separated me and another lady, and we both placed our purses and magazines there. Throughout the bumpy flight I half-watched Bravo repeats on the small screen in front of me, drank Bloody Mary mix, nibbled almonds, and dozed.

The seatbelt sign remained on, but I’ve flown lots in my life, and turbulence no longer bothers me much. I figured the pilot wouldn’t have been allowed to take off it weren’t safe.

New York’s sky was clear blue as we began our landing. But as we slowly circled La Guardia, we started bouncing and dipping like on a giant roller coaster. The man behind me started speaking fast, in Spanish, clearly agitated. Otherwise the plane was pretty quiet. The lady on the aisle seat kept reading.

We approached the airport over Long Island Sound, which churned with whitecaps like the ocean. The plane’s wings dipped steeply as we lost altitude, and I started to rue the fact that I chosen LaGuardia over JFK or Newark. LaGuardia’s runways are notoriously short, not much longer than an aircraft carrier. I’d had some hairy landings there.

As we pitched back and forth I thought of the term “wind shear.” I stared out the window, watching the ground come closer, now wishing it closer, wishing us landed already. The lady next to me kept reading.

Suddenly the engines whined, and I felt like I was lifted in the fastest elevator ever. The plane strained upward. For whatever reason, the pilot decided at the last minute that he wasn’t going to land in this wind.

I felt a sharp relief. And then I immediately realized we were going to have to land again. And I was now aware of the danger in the misleading clear air. And I got really nervous.

***

The plane now circled north over the Tappan Zee bridge to prepare for another try, flying over Westchester County where I had lived for most of my adult life. We were freefalling and then bouncing up, and at the same time pitching back and forth. Ups and downs. Ups and downs.

And then, in the seemingly endless minutes before we were going to land again, I realized I could see below me in the toy houses and ribbons of roads among the green hills the place where many of the ups and downs of my life had unfolded. This imminent, inevitable landing in windy conditions reminded me of the danger I felt in past years after being diagnosed with cancer, right below me in Westchester.

Like then, I felt especially vulnerable. Mortal. Fragile. Aware of my life, played out for so long –ironically --thousands of feet below me. Even on a seemingly pretty day, a vicious wind of can whip up. There is always a possible wind to blow you back, to even sweep you away.

Staring out the window I realized that the dangers of life enhance what make it precious. Besides fear, I realized in these moments the exquisite joy of living.

***

After maybe 20 minutes of circling, the plane headed southeast to make its second approach to LaGuardia. Most passengers now stared out the windows. Some had their eyes closed. The gusts were as strong as before. The man behind me was now barfing into that bag that had always seemed so retro to me, folded in the seat pocket. The sounds and the smells and the fear and the motion made me queasy as well. The lady next to me was now straining to look out the window.

The cabin was eerily quiet except for those throwing up. I wished the flight attendants or pilots had made an announcement, but I realized that this was a technical situation and they were strapped in their seats.

I had to pee, probably like most of the passengers. But nobody got up.

The plane passed low over the whitecaps again, in its final approach, a term that took on new meaning. The ground below shifted back and forth, the wings dipping as if touching it. I felt both frightened and calm, because I couldn’t do a damn thing but stare out the window and wish this landing over. Wish the pilot was wise and experienced and rested. Magical thinking, I know.

And in what seemed like the longest, slowest, dippiest approach ever, the wheels finally hit the runway hard. And as the brakes roared, the clapping roared even louder and longer. And then, finally, a chirpy voice over the intercom, “Wasn’t that a great landing? I think we need to give the pilots a special thank you.” More clapping.

And all of us paid our respects to the captain as we deplaned (I overstated, “Sully had nothing on you.”)

***

I met my son, for a now extremely late lunch at his favorite Greek restaurant on the West Side. I got out of the taxi feeling as if I’d just gotten off a two week cruise on rough seas. The wind was whipping scarves and flags and skirts and hair.

“Not a great day to fly,” he said. “Must have been bad up there today. The wind was up to 60 miles an hour down here!” And I told him I loved him as I sipped a few spoonfuls of lemon-chicken soup.

"Aha moments" are especially worthwhile once they are over, and you’re in a safe place, having some soup with your son.

OK, You Caught Me. I've Fallen in Love

Fri, 30 Oct 2009 08:10:40 -0400

Twincities.com

Yesterday, dumb as a brick, I changed the status on my Facebook page from single to “in a relationship.” It was the truth. I would gently edge into my new identity. I thought no one would notice.

Ha. Within minutes I received dozens of comments from all around the country, including from many Open Salon friends.

You see, I have this brand. Single woman. Solo traveler. Solo lady. For eight years, since my husband died, I’ve nurtured it along, with a book and a website and interviews and panels. My anthem, viral post Why I’m Alone, written in March, was quoted all over the place because of its authenticity about loving my solitary existence. I was noted around the web as a "role model.” A “happy single” rather than a “crappy single.”

So what do I go and do? I meet this man a week after I wrote that post. And now, seven months later I’m in a relationship. No, even more. Living with the man. Absolutely in love.

Some of you caught it in my comments here and messaged me. I admitted it, but wasn’t ready to go public.

Oh yes, I fought it, let me tell you. “I need space.” “I want to be alone.” (Greta Garbo had nothing on me.) “I’m too old for this.” “I’m too formed.” “I like to stay up until 2 am.” “I’m not giving up the Housewives Series on Bravo.” “I want to go out with my single girlfriends whenever I want.” “I like quiet.” “I like my own bathroom.”

The man didn’t budge. We worked things out. He wants me to be happy. He says, “Why should you change?"

I didn’t tell him I loved him for a long time, even though he declared it early on. The man said he’d wait it out. I put him through the trauma of moving out of my New York house. He was patient and caring. He slept in a top bunk in my granddaughter’s room and did the cleanup when I was redecorating my son’s house.

He was incorrigible. He doesn't care that I don't fish or sail, or that I've gained weight from all the wining and dining and traveling around. He likes me just the way I am.

Oh boy.

He is age-appropriate, he loves his work, he unabashedly loves me. He does the dishes, does his laundry, acts like a teenager in the bedroom, and makes me laugh.

And Sweetie, my cat, sits between us whenever possible and nudges him out of the way, but she hasn’t nipped him in weeks.

A couple of weeks ago I went to New England to see where he used to live and then on to meet his sister. I had a load of questions, including “Has he always been so sweet?” (Yes, except for an early period when he was full of himself.)

So I decided he is as good as he seems. I declared my love. I introduced him to my friends last weekend (“Lovely, witty, attractive man. A keeper”)

So I guess it’s official. I'm outed. I’m changing my brand from “solo lady” to “independent lady.”

And no one is more surprised, and delighted, than I am.