The Big Day

I woke up in the middle of the night, my heart heavy with concern for E.  I felt so helpless, there was little I could do for him now.  I tried my best to help with his PowerPoint presentation. I organized and searched and wrote.  I did my best. Even with all of that, there was little I could do.  It was all up to him, and it felt like such an enourmous weight to bear. Maybe kind of worry was how he felt when I was having Tyoma. Sitting, waiting. Worrying. 
E drove to the interview place, which was a cinch since he'd done it yesterday, just to be sure.  We arrived early, largely since I was panicky and wanted to get there safely. Pesky, selfish me.  We chatted aimlessly until 8:15. I watched him disappear into a sea of cars as he walked away. Sigh.

I tried not to panic driving back to the hotel, which was some work since I have been in a constant state of disorientation since we arrived.  I had practiced the way back in my mind, and still I had problems.  In brief, one way streets kept swapping their arrows every time I blinked.  I have to hand it to California drivers, they are a kind and patient lot.  No horn honking, cursing, or flip-offs, just smiles and friendly waves. Nice, very nice.  I looked for someplace to pull over, to let the rush hour traffic flow by smoothly.

Fortuitously I found a Super-Target, and decided to pick up snacks on the cheap (room service=$$$).  It was so odd to see all the merchandise so familiar to me in Las Cruces, but for one odd bit--they had wine!  Yes, I bought a bottle, a wine opener and some chips, dammit.  The wine prices were awesome.  Another plus for California.  I wondered how many bottles of wine I would have to drink to make up for the cost of housing.

I agonized for the rest of the day, waiting to hear from E.  I must have called mom six times.  Perhaps this was not a good idea, talking obsessively over it, but I asked her to help keep my mind off of it and she really helped. I didn't know what to do with myself.  I watched Maury Pauvich, took a shower, curled my hair and put on make up. I wandered around in rollers in my favorite worn nightgown with the AC on high.  I thought a glass of wine would be sweet, but avoided it.  I was completely paranoid over making a bad impression if I was invited out for dinner.

Time slipped by.  I watched Fox News.  The Weather Channel. Checked my email. Back to Fox. I tried not to think about what was going on with E, but there was nothing to do but wait or get lost/killed driving around. 

E finally called at 4:30.  I wondered what he did for eight hours that he couldn't drop me a little message.  I quickly pushed the thought out of my mind. He said the presentation and interview went well. He would be home soon and, no, there wouldn't be a dinner tonight.  After an eternity, he came home and told me to get dressed since we were going to dinner.  I snapped.  After a long day of waiting, I unloaded on him.  The sad thing was that I knew I was being unfair. Some dam broke open inside me and I freaked.  I pulled my shit together, though, got ready and quit bitching.  I had to remind myself this was not about me.

Our drive to the restaurant was long, traffic filled and metropolitan.  Streams of cars on the road in the failing light looked like rows of silver zippers curving across and immense and unending body.  I had to fight my anxiety with all my might to shut up about our drive.  I wanted to tell him to slow down, quit weaving, be careful. 

He seemed reckless and out of his mind as he drove, adhering to his theory that being a good driver is not about following the rules, it's about following the flow. He did well, then.  This pace was too fast for me.  Multiple lanes of cars confused me, made me feel as if I did not know my place, especially in the dim light.  Sometimes, when lines form at stores, it's unclear what is happening.  Is this lane for the lane directly ahead or for the the next open cashier?  These days, they corral you so you don't get confused and inadvertently cut in front of the next Kohl's customer.  I felt as if there were no lanes here, just a giant motor free-for-all and I could not see how anyone could navigate through that at a single mile over the speed limit.

We reached the restaurant intact, my nerves jangling.  I did not clearly understand what happened during E's day, but it seemed good.  The restaurant was a blur, although I recall that one fellow was a maverick.  Perhaps too much so, for his own career's sake--like one of those supporting character's in an Armageddon movie who helps the hero save the world. The senior fellow was very nice.  He seemed earthy and polished at the same time, self-confident and wise. 

We ordered beers and then dinner. Since I assumed that we were paying my way I ordered an expensive dish out of confusion over the menu.  My expensive choice resulted in one of the fellows having a salad.  I did not realize my mistake until it was too late and felt absolutely mortified.  We left extra cash to pay, but I did not understand if it was taken or refused.

Dinner was very pleasant, but I felt as if something was subtly wrong.  The looks the men gave me made me wonder if E was being judged on my appearance.  They looked--surprised.  I figured that it must be because I looked old or fat or somehow inappropriate for such a wonderful fellow.  In retrospect, I must have looked anxious and pissed and maybe they wondered, WTF?

The restaurant was located right on the beach and we took a brief after dinner walk to look at the last glimmers of pink in the sky.  I felt immensely hopeful, suddenly.  Well, even if we can't afford a home and have a small place to live, we will be here and we can come to this quiet, peaceful beach.  Tyoma could grow up loving the ocean visiting cool cosmopolitan places.

When we returned to the hotel, I opened the bottle of wine and helped myself generously.  I'd timidly sipped beer at the restaurant, feeling self-conscious and scrutinized. As I was sipping wine, Egor spoke to his mother on the phone.  We received shocking bad news. E's grandmother had passed away.

I was flattened by disbelief. I did not know what to say to my husband. I'd been so selfish ans self occupied all day, I did not want to add to his hurt.  After the call, we lay side by side and held hands. We cried quiet tears and said nothing.

Real Estate Adventure

This morning we burst out of bed ready to face our day with the realtor, Susan.  I gobbled three eggs for my diet, but they menaced my stomach all morning.  It was my job to orient Egor on the way to the realtor's office, but I became completely lost and confused within minutes.  We still made it there on time.  I noted the traffic and shuddered.

Susan was mid fifty-ish and tastefully dressed.  I did not regret the trouble I took to pick out the perfect outfit.  We started off in the more affordable neighborhoods ($650K) and then she whisked us off to the $1 million dollar homes.  I have to ask myself, what is she thinking?  the company sent her to us and we told her what we could afford.  The houses in Torrance were uninspiring, pasteboard looking creations, clumped closely together and barrio looking.  The expensive homes  in Palos Verdes offered an exquisite view of the ocean, and darling courtyards.  Sadly the homes themselves had a palpable 1964 vibe, older but not old enough to be quaint. Location, indeed.

Rentals in the neighborhoods we likes were about $500 more than we could afford unless we wanted to share a bedroom with Tyoma.  I despised the cramped townhouses with tiny thumbprints for backyards.  I need to re-evaluate raising Tyoma somewhere he could not run free or have a backyard.

We broke for lunch at a wonderful restaurant named Marmalade's.  My diet has gone to hell.  I had chicken a la orange and it was superb. Rice! Yum! E noshed on the most scrumptious fettuccine with real wild mushrooms.  We looked at more homes during the afternoon.  Prices were $650-$800 range.

I confess on the outings we saw some of the ugliest interiors ever.  I guess when location is so valuable, folks feel, they can do any damn thing they please. Big bold wallpaper patterns, matching upholstery and smug owners who wanted us to experience their home were not uncommon.  I cherish weird, smile at tacky, and contemplate the odd. Pretentiousness leaves me cold.  I don't want the snooty wallpaper to keep me up at night with its specious observations.

One rental home was painted bright lemon yellow.  The yellow prevailed inside the house on all the walls.  the only things non yellow were the lilac door and the uncoordinating cherry floors.  Another odd thing.  Many homes were about 1300 feet or less and had very dark flooring which made all of the rooms look cramped.  Anyway, the landlord of the Lemon House greeted us at the door with a bossiness that was jarring.  she was impatient and domineering and kept after us about the rental particulars, no smoking, no shoes on in the house, when rent due, and so on.  she was almost hysterical and I wondered if she was on drugs.  She seemed to be going through the worst PMS ever after drinking 40 cups of coffee.  I watched her eyes, she did not seem stoned, she seemed, mad--old fashioned mad.  Gripped by the sort or irritability and rushing speech that I bipolar person might experience.

In the evening we dragged ourselves in at 4:30.  It was time to unwind for the big meeting tomorrow.  I counter the minutes until the free snack bar opened and loaded up on South Beach friendly fare.  I longed for a glass of wine, but at $12.50 a glass, I drank tap water and vending machine ice.

We wound up ordering room service.  I don't think my poor brain could handle giving E the wrong directions one more time today.  We conked out at 9:30.

Trip to California

Don't watch an Air Emergency marathon right before a plane trip, is all I can say.  I have the jitters anyway, just because this trip is so important to us.  I know we have only been looking for a job for a few months, but we have been out of money since February. Getting seated on the plane, E gives me the window seat.  Bless him. As the flight attendant performs her obligatory take-off seat buckle demonstration, I try to push missing Tyoma out of my mind. 

We take off  and the physical thrill engulfs me.  I love the roller coaster pressure of flight.  The idea of soaring throughout the clouds to an unnatural elevation thrills me. Unfortunately the blabbing of the pilot brings me back to missing Tyoma.

I do miss him. I know Mom will do a good job, but still.  It sounds ridiculous, but imagine.  If you are used to wearing a watch when you are out and about, you become habituated to checking it for the time.  This is how I miss Tyoma.  My eyes want to find him, check him and process that tiny bit of information before I can carry on with a clear, untroubled mind.

The best way to relax is to look out the window and write what I see. The light blends into late afternoon and clumpy curdled cheese clouds catch my eye.  The clouds are luminous, but offer no respite for the parched desert  below.  Arroyos on drab sands look like branching veins, gin blossoms that roll into cauliflower-eared ridges and hills.  As we increase our altitude, the land below reforms into a fossil bed.  Armies of trilobites meander on the ocean floor, bumped and whirled by unseen eddies of turbulence, that I can feel perched in the sky.

Well, that squeezed all the poetry out of me.  I turn my focus to fellow passengers.  A deeply concerned black man, who spent all of his time making phone calls at the gate folds his hands together pensively.  I could not quite overhear his conversations, but he had the air of one dealing with family tragedy.   He was not calling to inform anyone of news, but rather to reassure others that he is on his way.  I stare at him and want to say something to him, or even just to lay my hand on his arm.  He shifts posititon and I glance away. I don't want to disturb him with my open sympathy.

An Asian family with a 14ish son sit placidly.  The boy brought a skateboard for a carry on which caused a commotion as the family tried to check it at the front of the plane. He is pudgy and has an earring in the cartilage of his ear as well as newish looking skater togs. Something about his beaten down demeanor tells me he is picked on by other kids.  His parents and grandparents bow in unison to the flight attendants offering drinks.

Two twenty-ish girls, long haired and busty,  sport spaghetti strap tank-tops and new high-heeled sandals. Oddly, their make up is subtle and flattering. They fuss over their two carry-on dresses that they hoist out of the overhead compartment.  I try to avoid eye contact as I take in the spectacle, so they don't see my amusement, but the duo do not seem self-conscious.  They are too immersed in the adventure they are about to embark on to notice anyone else.  I get a closer look at the dresses, they are flimsy, inexpensive and fashioned with the sort of glittery tackiness I thought died in the 80s.   Generic plastic hangers complete the scene.  I half way expect them to change their clothes in the aisle, but they are simply twittering over their new dresses. I suspect that the girls will have a riot in Las Vegas.

The rest of the passengers have bowed heads, silently focusing on their private tasks.  There seems to be a pattern: laptop, laptop, book, book, book.  I am the only one writing in a paper journal. Am I so antiquated, so soon? At least I don't have a typewriter.

I close my eyes, enjoying the smooth buoyancy of the flight.  Vibrations from the plane are rhythmic and soothing, the shushing of the engine, hypnotic.  A train ride in the sky.

The drink cart approaches.  I am excited by the possibility of wine.  We obtain our drinks and peanuts (which you must request). I listen, above the sound of the plane no one is speaking.  It is hushed except for the sound of peanut wrappers and Egor chewing ice.  My wine feels warm and smooth.  Out the windows, the trilobites have shifted into relief--etched into the landscape, looking more geological and less surreal.

As we come close to Nevada, I wonder about all the others who have looked down on the same scene.  The eternal expanse of seabed is unbroken by roads.  I wonder how civilization crept over this expanse of dry furrowed land to find Las Vegas.  Five, ten minutes pass.  The earth slyly transforms into a mottled desert, and then into greener terrain transected by vivid ocher roads.  Tiny patches of metallic crystals glimmer.  The randomness of the landscape becomes grid like and rectangular.  It looks like we are flying over an immense stretch of green and brown circuit board with soldered roads.  This gives way to turquoise quarries and a milky blue lake populated by tiny watercraft whose wakes I can see. Viva Las Vegas.

LAX

This is so shameless, writing so much about my impressions when I should be devoting time to my concerns and feelings over the job.  I guess that I am so tired of living with it, day after day that it seems mundane and old.  do i want to remember these worries so vividly years from now.  Why bother? I will not forget the worry, it will always be with me, it will simply attach itself to some new, and perhaps less significant thing in my life.

LAX was dazzling and busy compared to the laid back glitz of Las Vegas. The lights here are brighter, the hum of humanity louder and more pressed.  I felt as if I needed to jog just to keep up with the casual pace of the residents.

Egor drug me along to the shuttle area. He had already incorporated the new pace into his system.  I felt confused and disoriented as we boarded a shuttle for the car rental place.  Our driver was an immense light skinned African American woman with brittle blond hair crimped tightly around her scalp. Her gravely voice boomed cheerfully though the speakers. Smiling brightly, she saluted other drivers and staff as she tore through the airport at top speed.  I could hear our luggage shifting nervously in the bins beside us.  I am amazed by how skillfully she maneuvers the minibus.  As we get off, she is sweet and patient with us tourists, although she seems about as tired and dazed as we are.  Her name is Phyllis and she won't take a tip.

It's after 10 pm when we hit the rental counter.  The sleepy rental agent is very patient with us and draws a map to our hotel.  I wonder how often he must give this speech and how he manages to still be so gracious.  At the hotel I have my first experience with valet parking and in my confusion manage to walk into Egor twice.

Our room is very pleasant and I unpack in a frenzy, mostly looking for my brush and face wash.  It takes ten minutes to coax the snarls out of my hair.  I collapse at 11:30.