Pick My New Career!

Maybe it's a midlife crisis, or maybe I'm just having a crisis of confidence, but I'm just not the editor I used to be. Quite frankly, I don't even think I'm the writer I used to be, and I always thought I could count on that.

So I need a change. But what can I do? Honestly, nothing. I have a bachelor's degree in English. I'm lucky to be able to afford groceries. So what does an executive editor/director of news and information (yes, that's my unwieldy title) with more than 20 years' experience in publishing do when midlife hits and the same old same old is just...old?

You can be part of the solution! Send in your ideas of a new career for me (more schooling not a good idea at this point), and you will get in return--my undying gratitude! Does it get any better than that? I don't think so.

Funeral for a Friend

I can't in all fairness claim the honor of being a friend to the woman whose funeral I attended Saturday. I wish I'd had the honor. I knew her from a couple of places--the church where my daughter occasionally attends youth group activities and the stable where our daughters ride. I barely knew her but wish I'd made the time to make the effort now that she's gone.

Not that she needed my friendship. She had a fabulous network of friends, family, and coworkers to keep her occupied. Whenever I saw her, she was generally with her jolly hulk of a husband, silent in his shadow yet not overshadowed. She had a beautiful smile and an outgoing personality. Together, they were radiant. Add her 14-year-old daughter, and they were the perfect nuclear family, miraculous and happy despite inevitable blemishes.

She was struck with a brain aneurysm just before Christmas and went into a coma Christmas Eve. Her family mercifully decided to remove her from life support a few days later. Her exit was very sudden in the grand scheme of things, and this naturally gives me pause. She was about my age, with an adoring husband and beautiful daughter. Sound familiar?

I lost both parents with less than a month's notification, so I'm no stranger to this sort of thing. Nevertheless, her passing shook me profoundly. It could have been me. It could have been my husband. It could have been my best friend or my wonderful, stressed-out neighbor across the street. Life is so valuable yet so fragile. I can't control it, so I have to close my eyes, hold on, and enjoy it.

Her funeral did, however, make me decide a few shallow things for myself:

1. At my funeral, please show pictures of me like they did at my friend's. Only PLEASE Photoshop them so I look thin. My friend always looked great, but I couldn't help thinking there were probably pictures up on the screen that she wouldn't have approved of. Women are just like that.

2. Please show up for my funeral! For hers, they practically lined up outside in the cold to pay their respects, but I'm afraid that if they threw a funeral for me, no one would come. (Someone I mentioned this to suggested that my obituary should mention that doughnuts will be served. That should help.)

3. If you're my friend and you decide to speak, please don't tell any drunk stories. Anyone who doesn't already know them doesn't need to know. And whatever you do, please don't mention He Who Shall Not Be Named. I'm not sure restraining orders are valid after someone's death, but I don't want to find out the hard way.

4. I have some music I want played, and I'm pretty firm on this. The Lachrymosa from Mozart's Requiem would be cool and creepy, but hey, I'm realistic. I would for you to play "Find the River" by REM because they always play that for dead friends. I'm not their friend, but they played it for my old pal John Seawright, who, coincidentally, died of a brain aneurysm when he was my age. And I absolutely INSIST that at the end of the service, before the doughnuts are served, everyone join in a rousing sing-along of Monty Python's "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life." This is not negotiable.

5. I want to be a diamond.

Don't It Make His Brown Eyes Blue

I wanted to come up with something upbeat to write because it seems as though all my entries are total downers, but it's been--frankly--a shitty week. The worst seems over, and what I'm left with now is some residual sorrow for those around me I've had to watch suffering. My biggest concern now, because it's the only situation I have any control over, is Gavin the Diabetic Dog.

Our lovely black lab mix Gavin was diagnosed in May with diabetes. The diagnosis came as something of a relief because I'm of the school of thinking that finds it comforting to imagine the worst possible outcomes and then be pleasantly surprised. Not sure that's working for me in the long run, but it's what I know. At any rate, the family and I have been carefully attending Gavin, faithfully giving him insulin shots twice a day, watching what he eats, trying to get him consistent exercise (we could do better on that one)--but we've yet to get his blood sugar where it should be. We're close, but we're just not there yet.

He seemed happy enough at first because he finally had some energy from the insulin. He's old and shaky, but I could still get him to run up and down the hill with me a little bit so he could feel the wind on his face.

Then about a week or so ago, we realized that he is now almost totally blind. We knew he had cataracts and that his sight was going, but we thought we had more time to get his blood sugar in check and head off the cataracts at the pass. But now he's having trouble negotiating his once-familiar surroundings, and he's timid on his beloved hill in our back yard.

Nevertheless, since that discovery I've noticed that he's already made some major adjustments. I've watched him sniff my footsteps to find the food bowl I've just filled; he's learned his way around the kitchen as long as we completely open or close doors and leave everything in the same place all the time. He's learning his way down the stairs, which are difficult for all of us, even in good times and good lighting. He comes to us for love when he hears us call him, and he still wags his tail when he hears his name and rises to stand at the ready when we say the magic word "outside."

I've been handling these changes rather stoically, until today. In my office is a birthday card my staff gave me with a picture of a black lab who looks just like Gavin. The difference? The dog on the card has brown eyes. So did Gavvy, of course, only now those cataracts give his doggy eyes a smoky blue appearance. And I nearly choked up right here at the office because I realized I miss those brown eyes.

Try Not to Breathe

I'm trying to enjoy our victory yesterday. And I do mean our. If you're too stupid to realize Obama's win is the best possible outcome for this world, that doesn't mean you won't reap the benefits. You will--oh, you will.

I want to leap and shout with all those beautiful young people whose enthusiasm and dedication to their belief in a better world helped to bring that world about. We've said they're selfish and lazy and don't care about politics or participating in real--versus virtual--communities, but we were wrong, dead wrong.

That a descendant of slave owners would one day be giving the ole rebel yell in honor of the United States--that's right, the Union--electing its first black president would surely have been far from the wildest imaginings of those very slave owners. And it makes me yowl even louder inside to think about it.

But there are a couple of storm clouds hovering over this Inaugural Parade route in my head. The first is the fact that I'm holding my breath hoping that the worst, the unthinkable, the unutterable, will not happen. I'm enough of a cynic to know that it could. And superstitious enough not to say it aloud.

The other little cloud is the vineyard where the sour grapes of wrath are stored. For example, one co-worker was so distraught at the prospect of a President Obama that she didn't sleep last night. She showed up at work wearing black and looking like something that was dragged for miles by a pickup truck in Texas, sighing and shaking her head all day as though we were facing the Apocalypse. I suppose I should feel sorry for her in her ignorance and fear--she's actually terrified that she'll lose her job and her house, perhaps through the nefarious plans of our president-elect to give them to, let's say, a crack ho. She called the Democrats in the office "comrades." She said she was going to wear black every day for the next four years. (Sounds like my college wardrobe.) Then--the unforgivable, the unconscionable--she said to a friend, a Jew, that she hoped that friend would "visit her in the concentration camp."

I'm going to try to give this alarmist drama queen a break. But her hot, foul breath, mingling with the fetid expirations of all those who think like her, is causing a miasma that threatens to choke me. So I'll try not to breathe.

Opera in the Outfield

Last Saturday night I witnesed marketing genius. The Washington National Opera sponsored a live simulcast (I think that's redundant) of the opening night of "La Traviata" at Nationals Park, and Jeff and I joined approximately 15,000 other Washingtonians to enjoy the music and hot dogs. What better way to get people like me--although preferably younger--who've never been to an opera to sit for three hours and listen to sopranos than to broadcast it in a unsnobby atmosphere where they can wear shorts and eat Ben's Chili Bowl?

I had my doubts about opera, although I love classical music without knowing much about it. What I know about opera I can pretty much attribute to Bugs Bunny. (You must have seen the immortal 12-minute rendition of Wagner's entire "Ring Cycle." Much better than the original.) Having sung alto in the church choir my entire childhood, I have no love of sopranos. I think recitatives are silly and boring. Most tenors leave me cold. (I guess I prefer low-pitched noises in general.) Nevertheless, I was enthralled. The HDTV bigger than my house certainly helped to make the event watchable, but I even loved the music. I did occasionally want to laugh because the facial expressions on someone singing a high note at a tragic moment are priceless, but I appealed to my better nature and kept my amusement to myself.

I must admit that I can't recall the names of any of the performers off the top of my head. I mean, come on. But the soprano singing the part of Violetta was pretty and hardly screechy at all, and I adored the baritone who sang the part of Alfredo's father. It helped that I already knew the story, but I still was moved to tears at the ending, corny as it may seem to a modern audience. How could I not be when facing the grand spectacle, the music and emotions, the lyricism and athleticism of the performances? It's safe to say that this was the first time that I have ever cried in a major league sports venue.

The Washington Post, in their typical crabby fashion of the last few years, found the performance only "adequate." I'm glad at times like this that I don't know enough about music to know when something lovely just isn't right. I'm glad I couldn't hear, as Jeff did, that the soprano was flat and the tenor sharp--or was it the other way round? I was just thrilled to be there, sucking down chili dogs to Verdi, and watching little children frolic on the bright green grass of the outfield in time to the music. Maybe these kids will never acquire the fear of and misconceptions about opera and the arts in general that so many Americans labor under. Perhaps they'll adore Mozart and shrug off Puccini the way I love the Beatles but snicker just a bit at Queen. And if the arts at the ballpark go completely over their heads, there's always Ben's Chili Bowl.

Too Old to Breed, Too Young to Lead

Watching the news coverage of Sarah Palin's being chosen to be John McCain's running mate, and talking to co-workers, I've observed something a little surprising. Palin, who like me, is 44, is caught in a sort of middle-aged no man's land.

With a Down Syndrome baby, she's pretty much established that she's at the end of her safe childbearing years. And today, I had a hot flash.

So, we're old, right? My daughter certainly thinks so. Add to that irrelevant and out of touch. In some ways, I'd say that's a fair call on her part.

But then, apparently, Sarah Palin is too young too lead if John McCain kicks it in office. How's that? Experienced? No, not really. But too young? I can't accept this any more than I can accept that John McCain is too old. (Just a few years older than Hillary Clinton, who, apparently is the just the right age to be taken seriously as a woman in politics.)

I don't suppose there's any point to this observation of mine, apart from reinforcing something that's enraged me for some time: middle-aged women are invisible in society. We're too old to be considered sexy, but we're too young to be the grandes dames in our professions or the revered dowagers in our families. We drift in and out of the consciousness of our fellow Americans like phantoms whose passing went unnoticed and whose return remains unremarkable.

Of course, the clear answer here, as far as Sarah Palin goes: vote Democrat.

Live from Waikiki

My BFF Laura sent me an e-mail the other day in response to my last entry--something to the effect of, "You sold your soul to a non-profit, right? That makes you a crappy negotiator."

Admittedly, that makes me feel a bit better about my Faustian transaction. So does being here in Waikiki for our annual meeting. I miss my family, and I'm trying to stay on my diet; but despite the drawbacks, it is really gorgeous here. And apparently I've been assigned one of the "executive" rooms, which means I have a lovely view. Who knows, maybe that's what they tell all the staffers just to make us feel special.

Perhaps the wages of sin aren't so great, but it does have a few lovely perks.