My new Idol

So, I have this friend, she is an old work buddy that, while we don't live in the same city or ever talk on the phone, we do communicate almost daily via email and quite frankly, this is one of the parts of my day that I look forward to the most. She is an amazing human being. Using the word "flighty" to describe her is perfect on so many levels, and she never fails to make me smile with her varied antics. Deep down, I am a little jealous of her grab-life-by-the-balls approach and I wish that I could be just a little bit more like her. Less reserved, less inhibited, less scared.
Recently, she sent me a copy of a cover letter, that I will share with you, that she is sending to an airline. Once again, the siren's song of the skies is calling to her... That I can relate to as well.

"I never wanted to be a flight attendant. Perky, blonde, cheerleader
types whose greatest work-related accomplishment is the ability to
distinguish between a Macadamia nut and a smoked almond has never appealed to me.
Nope. No way. I'm WAY smarter than that. That is why in May of 1999, sitting
in initial flight attendant training for Delta Air Lines, I felt like an
imposter. As the group of fifty or so skipped around the room asking,
So why do YOU want to be a flight attendant?" parroting one another with,
"Because I looooove people and I love to travel," I thought to myself,
"Uh, what will I say? Because I've always wanted to jump out of an airplane
onto the big, yellow slide during training? Because I need medical benefits
and a 401K? Because I need a job, any job. " Luckily, I interview well and,
though an imposter, I got the job. The next six years proved to be the best
training ground in customer service and humility I'd ever experienced.
I hated the job. I was miserable. I took everything personally. I
thought, "If people would just ACT RIGHT, then I'd be happy." Wrong again,
Heather.

Fastforwarding almost eight years and three lay-offs later, I've waited
tables, substitute taught every grade and subject imaginable, tutored
adults trying to obtain their GED and migrant workers trying to learn English.
I've soloed an airplane, become a licensed esthetician, worked in dayspas
and a four-star hotel, lived with and cared for a woman with Alzheimer's, and
volunteered as a houseparent for a teen pregnancy/drug rehabilitation
center. I've been a babysitter, housesitter, dogsitter and catsitter.
And, while working for Song (owned and operated by Delta), I even sold all
my personal possessions to live in a funeral parlor in Greenwich, CT.
Through all of this, I refused to let a layoff--three in fact--get the best of
me. My own head swirls as I look back at my past, rife with change and
uncertainty.

In a way that was entirely new for me, last year brought its own
surprises. Stability proved to be the theme of 2006. I quit the commercial
aviation industry altogether and became a nanny. I care for a little two-year
old boy. His mom and dad are sixty-four and seventy-seven respectively. I
said stable, did I mention interesting? I currently volunteer at my church
and am dating the man I'll one day marry. In my spare time, I've been
taking dance lessons, training for a half-marathon and am enrolled in a
cooking class. I've learned that I'm more than a job title or a list of
credentials in a one page resume. I've learned how a sanguine disposition and
humble service to others is priceless in any undertaking. Whether it be as a
nanny to a two-year old, a tutor to adults without high school educations, or
serving lunch to the Movers and Shakers of the world, I am in pursuit
of happiness, both the happiness of myself as well as those around me.

As I sit and write my tale, potty-training, playdates, and
not-so-fine-dining fill my world. In the pocketed moments of stillness,
though, I ask myself the question, "What do I want to do now? What do I
love and want to spend my life doing?" I chuckle to myself as I ponder
my inclinations. It turns out that I love people, I love to travel, and I
want to be a flight attendant when I grow up."

After I read this, all I could think was, wow.
Now, she is patiently waiting to hear back from them. She has broken things off with Mr. Right, he just didn't want to follow her whole dance lesson gypsy way of life, and she's fine with that. "Such is life," she says, and with a laugh and a smile she is moving on. My hero.

Swimming in the Black Sea of assholes

I used to be a staunch defender of New York City and the people who inhabited this shit hole. I used to take great pleasure in telling people that as a flight attendant I had the great honor of flying out of "the capital of the world." I used to wear it like a badge of honor that I could call it my part-time home... Then I moved here, full-time.
Now, I walk around with my hands in my pockets for fear of touching one of the disease leaden assholes that surround me everywhere I go, head down, shoulders forward, barreling my way along the shit covered sidewalks. (They are literally covered with shit where inconsiderate assholes neglect to clean up after their dogs.) Now, I no longer make excuses like, "Oh, New Yorkers aren't rude, they just know what they want and they want it now." No, my mistake. They are rude. They are inconsiderate. They are ignorant. They are, for the most part, all self-centered, self-righteous assholes. There is a distinct difference between New Yorkers and people who are raised in normal, civilized, Southern society.
People in the South say "please" and "thank you" and "excuse me." New Yorkers say "it's not my problem" and "fuck you" and "excuse you." It hurts my heart. A Southerner, male or female, would gladly give up their seat on the train for the elderly or for a woman, up here I watch teenagers push old women out of the way to beat them to a seat, and then laugh about it. In the South men hold doors and pull out chairs, up here men barrel past you and seem to make a concerted effort to shut the door in a woman's face - the whole anti-women's-lib effort. Again, my heart breaks.
I've tried to be the better person. Naively believing that if I behaved properly then people around me would do the same, follow my lead, pay-it-forward and all that shit. Yeah, no, that isn't working. People are still assholes, even more so I think. So, now I am going to go the other way. No, I'm not going to be an asshole, but I am going to start carrying a big green dildo with me everywhere I go and just whack people with it whenever they are rude to me. That would be a lesson they would never forget. "Oh my God! I can't believe you just hit me with a giant green dildo!" Yeah, well, I can't believe you're such an asshole, so I guess we're even. Have a good day.

Goodbye Lucy

Well, it's official. Michael and I are now trapped in New York City.
My car, the first thing I ever purchased with my own money without the help of my dad or Michael, my escape, my little red friend, Lucy, has been sold. We no longer own anything. We are sans property. We have no titles, no mortgages, no leins, no land, nothing, nada, nil, zippo.
I didn't think I would care this much, but I'm actually a little bit sad. Granted, I hated dealing with the car in the city, and my daily anxiety attacks ovr parking were starting to eat at my marriage, but still, it was nice knowing that we had an escape route. I know, we can always rent a car, but it's not the same. Because I know Michael and I, and we are not car renters. Especially just to drive to Jersey. So, this too we will have to get used to, another adjustment, another life step.
I miss normalcy.

NYC wildlife

OK, so the last place you would expect to see a bull is in Manhattan. Yet, here one is, right in Madison Square Garden, at the bullriding competition.

Yes, that is a dead racoon in a tree. The poor little fellow probably crawled up there looked down on the shit of a city beneath him and just decided to go ahead and die. And there he still lies, dead in a tree in Riverside Park.

Yes, that is a hawk. He's alive and he's living in my park. Pretty cool.

Back to work

As I come to the end of my winter break I have come to a revelation about myself and about the little life that I have created for myself. I am a closet lazy person. Honestly, I am perfectly content sitting on my ass doing absolutely nothing for hours on end. Sad.
I came to this realization yesterday afternoon as I was, surprise, sitting on my couch reading a very warm and lovely book. Back in December I had an entire list of activities that I wanted to engage in once I returned from Tennessee. I was going to go ice skating and walk around Macy's and have my brows threaded, perhaps shop for exotic vegetables in Chinatown and finally explore every nook of the Village, maybe convince Michael to catch a train to anywhere out of Grand Central. But no, none of these things happened.
I did however make cupcakes, snuggle with my puppies, read two very good books, and take an exorbitant number of much needed naps. Decadence defined.
This used to bother me. I seemed to always be trying to make myself be something I am so obviously not. I thought that since I live in this city that never stops that I had to be one of the crazies who also never stop. That's insane! I enjoy being home. I love to sit curled on my couch wrapped in a blanket with a delicious cup of home brewed coffee petting my dog's head. And what is wrong with that? In any other part of the country this would be heaven. It's only here, in the land of the freaks, that I am seen as abnormal. That people look at me and think, "Ahh, poor her, she doesn't take advantage of all that this shit-hole city has to offer." Yeah, poor me, I am safe and warm and well fed and in a nice clean, sterile apartment surrounded by my pets and my husband, yeah, poor me. There are enough crazies on the streets already. I feel I am doing a public service by keeping myself inside, because honestly, I am just as crazy as the rest of them.

37 days and counting

Sometimes I wish there was a way to beat the shit out of my body without actually hurting myself. Because honestly, it could use a good ass-kicking right now. 37 days. It has been 37 days since my last period, but still, one pink line. A wasted trip to K-Mart(3 trains and a 10 block walk away) for a wasted $11.99 First Response Early Detection pregnancy test for one fucking pink line.
I really thought we had done it this time. It would have been the perfect conception tale. I would have loved recounting to our offspring about how they were conceived in my childhood bed the night before Christmas Eve and that on Christmas Eve I had prayed to God for my own son while listening to Michael Rogers finally sing 'O Holy Night' with a thousand candles burning around us. It was supposed to be my own little Christmas miracle.
Cooper would have had a baby friend. My peak pregnancy would have been photographed at my little brother's wedding in May. My 30th birthday would have also celebrated the end of my first trimester. Michael would have gotten his little buddy.
But no, one pink line, and still no flow to speak of. Not even a spot. No cramps. No tender breasts. No salty chocolate cravings. No abnormal mood swings(well, Michael might disagree with that one.) No red on the TP. One pink line.
I gave up the opportunity to buy and drink one of my favorite bottles of wine, cut out caffeine and ate mostly vegetables for 6 whole days, all for what? One pink line.
Never again. I will never again pee on a worthless stick. They're officially banned. First Response is dead to me. They can ride their little pink line straight to hell.

Cooper's 1st Christmas

After having lived with an infant for an entire week I have now decided that this is all I want. Cooper is the sweetest, most precious angel that I have ever seen and I love him so much. And my sister, well, she is the best new mom ever. She's so patient and gentle and level headed that I could hardly believe she is the same crying mess of a girl that I had grown to know and love. She has truly been blessed.


I just hope that this baby will grow into a man completely unlike his father. A man of honor and of integrity. A man who would never walk around pretending to not have a son. A man who would do the right thing. Cooper was given the name of his grandfather, James Lee, thus he will be carrying on the family name. James is a good man, and after a lifetime of mistakes, has become a good father and an even better grandfather. Hopefully, Cooper will do more than just carry on his name, hopefully he will be good, like his grandpa.