Rock the Silver

Hunting for rocks with dynamite

Good news in the writing world! In October Pat Conroy will publish a memoir about his father, who inspired "The Great Santini." Talk about Dads and demons. I can't wait to read the real story of Pat Conroy's abusive father as told by one of the most gifted writers on the planet.

In the same category of writing, Dads and demons, I would like to announce that I am back -- she's baaaacck -- after a patchy five months of blogging. What happened is that I encountered a person who yelled at me and called me a failure and told me to be quiet and quit bothering him with questions and then withdrew completely because I was seemingly not worth yelling at anymore.

So I got quiet like I was told. I didn't completely lose my voice, but it was a struggle to post anything about anything. It's surprising I tolerated this behavior. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before. Or so I thought. Early on, my sister said I think you are having such a hard time with this because of Dad. I kind of blew it off, because I forgave my father for his bad behavior years ago. I'm 57 years old and way past all that. OK, not really.

As it turns out, I had experienced something very much like this before -- as a child growing up. My father did all those things -- yelled at me, called me a failure, told me to quit bothering him and then withdrew. You know the expression? It's never too late to have a happy childhood? I've spent a lifetime building myself back up, and I couldn't believe ... I couldn't believe this was happening to me again.

This person was only in my life a few months, but damage was done. I kept telling myself I could quickly snap out of it, but time and grief have its own agenda. I simmered and stewed and reached out to trusted friends, who gave me great support and exceptional advice. My favorite was from Lynne.

You are a rock, but right now they're coming at you with dynamite.

All of the sudden, I thought, I'm fine. I'm fine. Maybe when you're a rock, everything looks like dynamite. So let's just blow this shit up and move on.

It would be easier to just start writing again and not offer up any sort of explanation, but I thought it was important to share this story. We're in mid-life, loving who we've become, and we think the demons of our past are gone and buried. What I didn't know is that sometimes they lie just below the surface scratching for air. Even if you're a rock, some people have dynamite.

Home is where the cat is

My husband grew up in Northern Maine. I grew up in Southern California. We were both looking to get out of Dodge and ended up in the Army. I joined after high school, and he joined after college. We met in Germany, got married in Alabama and have moved 10 times together. Our private joke was that we liked to be several area codes away from the family hub.

We used to say no kids, no pets, we travel light. We went where the jobs took us. Home is wherever we happened to be. Six years in Germany, two and a half in Cairo. Pennsylvania, Maryland, Alabama. Picked up a cat in South Carolina. Well, two really. One is gone, but his successor came with us to Texas. Bruno. We told him they like them big in Texas.

It occurred to me recently that I wouldn't know where to live if I could choose. I asked my husband, and he didn't know either. Our parents are gone. The siblings have moved from the towns where we were raised. New people live in the houses we grew up in. I looked up my house on Google maps, and they've done something strange to the garage. Nothing there but memories to call us back. Some of those memories are what drove us away in the first place.

I wonder what it's like if you never left or sunk in deep somewhere else. That seemed like a death sentence to me so many years ago, when I was more than eager to hit escape velocity. I relish the choices I made, but perhaps the price is that I have no sense of home other than being with my husband and cat. No sense of shared community, and I am trying to imagine what that feels like.

Is it warming? Energizing? Smothering? Everybody knowing everyone else's business? My husband and I have built this cocoon. We freak out if the doorbell rings. Who could that be? What do they want? I can't imagine a neighbor stopping by just to chat or some family member needing money or a ride somewhere. Sounds annoying, but maybe it's nice.

The question about where to live is somewhat loaded. Lots of factors go into a decision about where you live -- if not family then probably money or lack thereof. Would I like to live by the beach in San Diego? Yes. Can I afford to live by the beach in San Diego? No.

I could see doing the expat thing in a place like Costa Rica or Panama. We've talked about the RV lifestyle -- my husband said he could do it if we had a luxurious base camp. But for him, no house, no go. I hear the Pacific Northwest is nice ... or maybe an artsy town in the mountains?

Well, this is a silly discussion because I don't have to think about it. I still follow the work. But there will come a day when we will either stay where we are out of comfort or inertia, or we will make a new choice. I have a feeling our definition of a happy home won't change. The two of us plus cat. Slightly reclusive nomads who freak out when the doorbell rings.

Seems like we could do that anywhere.

Blogger's Block

I feel sort of stuck. Like everything I've written and posted to date is junk, and nothing I could share in the future will be worthwhile. Who cares about any of this, really? The internet could blow up tomorrow, and everything on it will be dust in the wind.

Wow. That's depressing! Except I am not depressed. I'm happy, so this blogger's block took me by surprise. I'm slightly anxious over my new job -- the first week was great, but I have a lot to learn. Change, even good change, is stressful. Big picture -- it's healthy to get outside your comfort zone. I am confident in my abilities. I know in my heart that challenge and opportunity trump fear.

Also on the positive news meter, I've come to terms with the role writing and blogging have in my life. I always wanted to make a living writing but now realize I don't have the guts for surviving on the financial edge. I'll take all the stresses of the workplace over the stress of wondering how the bills get paid. It's liberating to just write and know I don't have to make money at it.

Maybe that's my problem. I'm not hungry anymore. I have a good job. Why blog? I blog because I want a seat at the table where all the good stuff is being discussed! I don't want to miss a thing. Plus, I am motivated simply by the art and craft of writing. Writing is fulfilling in a way no job can touch.

We are all complex beings, and as such, why put all our eggs in one basket? My professional career is very important to me, but so is writing, reading, walking, shopping, cycling, swimming, golfing, camping, good food, good drink and watching "Chopped."

Some might say I lack focus, but being driven to pursue varied interests makes for a more balanced and interesting life. Plenty of driven, balanced and interesting people have exceptional careers. We do not have to surrender our complete selves just because we work.

See? Writing about it brings clarity. I'll do my best to hop over this block and come back with something you will enjoy reading.

Thank you for your patience.

Oh, for the glory days of travel

I was out being abused by the airlines this week. I started to write about it, but it occurred to me that fondly remembering the days when air travel was pleasant and we used to dress up is the modern equivalent of telling young people we walked 10 miles to school in the snow.

Well, just this, and then I promise I will stop. Is there a priority club for people who just want to be treated with kindness and respect? I flew the mythical Misanthropic Airlines, which reached new levels of disdain for the average traveler. People with priority access now enter through a lane facing the entrance to the plane. The lane is cordoned off with a lush red velvet rope. All others are told to line up against the wall. Seriously. The only part they left out was "redneck mothers."

Now that I've started, I may as well continue. My other issue is partially self-induced. I finally bought a small roll-on bag and am learning to pack light. I thoroughly researched luggage restrictions, as I wanted absolutely no doubt or questions regarding the size of my bag. For some reason, those sorts of confrontations don't showcase my best attributes. So far, I've only been able to actually roll it aboard exactly once.

When you are in Zone 3 or Zone 4 and do not have priority access, you can kiss your bag goodbye. The only advantage at that point is that they were check it at the gate for no charge. At least that's the way it worked as Misanthropic Airlines. They no longer deliver it planeside at your destination -- now you have to pick it up at the baggage carousel.

As I was waiting for my zone to be called, the agent got on the microphone and said this, "Attention passengers in the gate area. This flight is full, and there are only eight bags checked. Eight! Look around you. Do you think all these bags will fit in the overhead bin?"

Silly us! Heads down, we walked sullenly to the desk to submit our bags, and they actually started barking at us. "Not here! On the other side of this rope!" There was a man behind me who whispered, "Am in in the right place? I don't want to get hurt."

I was tired. Fed up. I confess to shedding a tear when I finally got settled into the darkness of 32B. I don't believe I will be flying again through the end of the year. That's good. I can build up my strength. I'll be tanned, rested and ready for the misanthropes in 2013.

Oh, by the way, DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT attempt to use a wireless mouse on an aircraft. It's against airline policy. If you try it, bad things happen, and ugly words will be exchanged. Trust me on this one.

Storytelling, lame lashes and a jewelry makeover

What a crazy week. I just might be out of stories, so I thought I'd share a few tid bits that might be relevant to your life.

Blogging helps prepare you for interviews

I did not get the jobs I interviewed for, but I'm still really happy. I got great feedback that I interviewed exceptionally well -- and I'm giving blogging partial credit for that. These were what they call behavioral interviews -- the questions start with phrases like, "Tell us about a time when ..." Then you have to tell a story that illustrates your experience and competencies.

One of the panelists told me later I was a great storyteller, and that's when I thought, ha, the blog comes through. The competition was keen and well, sometimes you win, and sometimes you don't. I did not lose. It was a positive experience, and I'm delighted to have made a good showing. I'm now seen as a strong candidate for other jobs, and some of this shifting around has created new opportunities. Stay tuned, more to come.

A new solution for lame lashes

As many of you know, I am a cancer survivor. My lashes grew back, but they are lame little sisters. Even without cancer, some women's lashes grow thinner with age. Mascara can actually make them look worse -- there's not much of a canvas to build on. I have discovered a wonderful innovation!

It's called Too Faced 3-Way Lashing Lining Tool. You dot it onto the base of your lashes, and it makes them look thicker. You can do other exotic cat eye stuff with it as well, but I don't go there. The beginning of this video shows how to dot it on for the thickening effect. I bought mine on Amazon.

What to do with old jewelry

I've been purging old jewelry -- getting down to what I love not just what I have. Some of it went to the Goodwill. Some of it is in a bag awaiting sentencing. I will probably consign most of it and makeover the rest. My first attempt was with a gorgeous blister pearl set my sister gave me many years ago. The earrings were great but broke somewhere along the line. The choker was heavy, and I just never found a comfortable way to wear it.

I took it to a jeweler to get the earrrings repaired and the choker made into a pin. Of course, I failed to do a before and after, so what you see here is the finished product and the remains. The pin looks abnormally large in this photo, but it isn't all that huge. I believe it will look lovely on the lapel of my chic black suit!

Now I have to figure out where to recycle the leftover silver.

No to the dress

A fashion retailer contacted me recently to inquire about the possibility of me doing what is commonly referred to as a "sponsored post." The idea is that I would choose some dresses I like, write about them any way I like and link prolifically back to the retailer's site throughout the post. I would be open and transparent that I was compensated in some way for this service.

I asked if anyone would be offended by such brazen commercialism and most said no. And as Lynne at Any Shiny Thing wrote, at least they didn't ask to secretly embed ads for adult diapers. A little money would be exchanged for my efforts and the use of space to promote their products on my blog, and there is some sense of comfort in being recognized as fashionably relevant. I said yes to the dress.

But something was rumbling around in my brain about saying no to the dough. I had to dig deep and think about big stuff like, why am I here? Not just why am I here in the blogosphere, but why am I here on the planet?

My conclusion was that I am not on the blogosphere or the planet to market other people's stuff. I don't have a problem with bloggers doing just that -- everyone decides what's best for them -- but I traded in a big chunk of my independence in order to earn a living, and I relish my little Klondike claim of a blog beholden to no one.

While I write about fashion and style from time to time, and I share my attempts occasionally, I'm no expert, so it seemed particularly disingenuous for me to peddle dresses. I can totally see someone else doing it with authenticity and class, and I love those sites because they offer something I don't have. I'm only an expert at what I translate from my head and put on paper and am not at all troubled by cashing in on that.

I can see it now. Donna Pekar, word whore.

The truth is I'm not quite sure what I am doing or where I am going. Sometimes I don't know what I think until I write about it and engage in interesting follow-on discussions with brilliant readers. I can't say that I won't change my mind some day, but right now it seems to me that if I ever make money blogging, it is likely to be through writing, speaking or developing my own products and services. So I said no to the dress.

This was not a sponsored post.

Keepsakes from those who would abuse your trust

I saw this story where people who have worn the yellow Livestrong wristbands feel betrayed and are trying to decide if they'll keep wearing them. I’m keeping mine, but I won’t wear it. I’ll tuck it away with the ring I got from another guy who fooled me into thinking he was someone he was not.

It was 35 years ago. I was in the Army, which wasn’t a bad place for a girl who couldn’t find a date in high school. I was stationed at a base in Germany, where I think the male-to-female ratio was 3,000:6. Lots of opportunity.

There was a guy, sergeant somebody. I honestly can’t remember his name. He struck me as a bit odd, but he was very sweet, and I liked him. Not anyone I wanted to date, but several of us -- a mix of young guys and gals -- would eat together in the mess hall or go out bowling or to a movie in the evening. Nobody was dating anybody. No kissing, no hands in the pants, just friends.

I was buddies with this girl, Sue. We both liked to travel and spent a lot of time seeing Europe together. One Christmas we were planning a trip to Nürnberg to see the Christkindlesmarkt. The sergeant came to see me in my office and wished me happy travels. Then he handed me $100 and said, “Have a good time.”

I was kind of an uppity and obstinate girl soldier, and I said, “Look, you’re sweet, but I don’t take money from men.”

He blathered on about how he had some extra cash and wanted me to have it. Something switched over in me, and I said, "If you are so anxious to spend your money, I suggest you take it to a woman who makes a profession of it." I really said that.

He was like, fine. Have fun.

When Sue and I got back from our trip, guess who shows up at my office again? This time with a small box. Inside was an opal ring with tiny diamond chips. It came with a certificate of authenticity! I said, "Seriously, you can’t expect me to accept this?"

He said, “Yes, it is truly a gesture of friendship. I’m sorry about the money -- I was hoping you'd accept the ring instead.” I said OK.

We continued to hang out together, and then he went off on a special assignment to the United Kingdom. He wrote me a few times, but I didn't write back. I eventually was transferred to Fort Bragg, N.C. While unpacking, I found one of his letters, and I was consumed with guilt. He had been nothing but charming to me, and I treated him badly.

So I wrote him a nice letter just to say hi. He wrote me back and said how happy he was to hear from me, how much he had always loved me and that he still hoped we could get together. I was blown away and wrote back, “I’m sorry, you misunderstood me, I was simply reaching out as a friend.”

Then he wrote back and said, “No, you misunderstood me. I’m a married man with six kids, and I want my ring back.”

That was my Lance Armstrong moment. I did then what I am going to do now with my yellow bracelet. I put it away and forgot about it. Someday I'll be cleaning out drawers, and I will find it, and it will remind me of a story about someone who pretended to be someone he was not.

Traveling in style

I don't travel a lot for my job. I mean, I know how to get through airport security without holding up a line, but I am unsavvy in the ways of the seasoned road warriors. Last week I went on a business trip to Washington D.C., and a colleague let me into the inner sanctum.

First stop was the Admirals Club (no apostrophe per American Airlines) at DFW. It's a fiesta in there! Free wine on tap, snacks, lounge chairs and first-class service. We hung out there awhile, and then he introduced me to priority boarding. I'm back in the bowels of coach, so I didn't think it mattered, but he said getting on the plane first helps with stowing things in the overhead compartment. Even though my boarding pass was Zone Z or something like that, all I had to do was walk to the gate with him.

It was a great way to start the trip, and I was feeling like I knew what planet I was on by the time we got to our workshop. Still, I am unseasoned enough that I check my bag because I pack way too many clothes, and I cannot fit all my girl goo into a one-quart zip. That meant I had lots of choices for attire, and I decided to pattern mix.

What a daredevil! The dress is a travel-worthy polyester spandex mix from Ellen Tracy, and the jacket is an equally packable St. John knit I bought on eBay. Made in the USA! I thought I looked pretty cute as I sat in the workshop ... hey, look at me, I'm pattern mixing ... when late in the day something possessed me to run my hand down the front of my chest (not in a kinky self-loving way). I felt a seam where no seam should be, and I thought, I wonder what's up with that?

I looked down my dress where the facing folds in at the neckline, and there was the little Ellen Tracy label staring up at me. I had the dress on backwards! Well, I couldn't sit there like that. I immediately but quietly exited the scene, went to the restroom and got undressed in the stall. I was careful to do it right this time and then returned to the workshop and slipped into my seat.

So much for sophistication. Still, I had one more crack at it. On the way back from D.C., my colleague introduced me to the priority line for the security check-in. A miserable experience nonetheless, but it does go a little faster. Again, all I had to do was sort of hover around him and breathe in the privilege. The Admirals Club was calling our names.

All of it honestly seemed a little elitist for my taste, but traveling has become such a drudge that I will sell out cheap for anything that enhances the experience. We plopped into our luxury chairs, and I told him the story about my dress. Perhaps I was crass and loud or the opulent quietness of the Admirals Club made my voice carry, but this impeccably dressed guy a couple of seats away looked up in delight and just started cracking up. I swear, he could not stop laughing, and it made me like the club after all.

Even if they do let in someone like me.

Simple needs, easily met

Slow news day. I just got back from visiting my husband's family in Maine. Had a great time. Thought I would share my favorite Maine treat -- chocolate coconut donuts.

Chocolate dough is fried and then rolled in coconut. I assume this happens within seconds of emerging from the hot fat, as the coconut sticks without icing of any kind. My sister-in-law ordered them the day before and then picked them up fresh in the morning. They come in a little white box lined with paper. I love New England food, especially lobster, crabs, clams and Maine hot dogs, but my only requirement for this trip was to eat a chocolate coconut donut the day it was made. Mission accomplished!

Regarding my expectations in life, my mantra is this: simple needs, easily met. It's really more of an affirmation, possibly a pipe dream. My husband says it's a joke, because unfortunately, I have complex needs that are difficult to identify, much less meet. This time I nailed it.

Baby steps.

Cycling just got interesting

Today I rode my bicycle for 15 miles in the Tour de Cure fundraiser for diabetes. The ride was at the Texas Motor Speedway in Fort Worth, and we got to do a lap around the track. That was fun.

I was not among the elite pack riding 30 and 60 miles, but I felt proud that I could do a mean 15, what with all my ailments. It's not a race, it's not a race, it's not a race, but it was snarkily delicious to leave some youngsters in the dust and not finish dead last. I completed the ride in 90 minutes -- a 10-miles-per hour pace won't set any records, but I was pleased.

Although this is as far as I've ever ridden, I had done several 10-mile training rides, so I knew I would be OK. I saw a lot of dead soldiers on the side of the road. I'm wondering if they thought, ah, 15, that's a piece of cake and then found out the hard way it wasn't. I felt great, and now I'm eager to work up to longer distances.

This was also my first group cycling event, and I liked it! The vibe was nice -- a huge range of ages and body sizes and everyone just out to have a good time. Baby boomers were definitely well-represented, and why not? Cycling might be the ultimate pro-aging sport. Easier on your body for sure.

It could be a money pit, though. Sure, there were plenty of people modeling your basic t-shirt or bike jersey and shorts, but many cyclists have some serious style. The freak flag was flying! I loved the eclectic mix of rebels and free spirits and Lance Armstrong wannabes. I'm kind of a loner -- not the serial killer kind -- but not as social as I could be, and this looked like a group of people I'd like to hang with.

At least I have a cool bike. It practically rides itself. Still, I felt woefully outclassed in the fashion and gear department and can't wait to throw money at the problem. I saw a woman about my age wearing an adorable cycling dress and thought, how cute is that? She had little braids poking out of her glitzy helmet, and I got excited thinking about how snappy I would look with gray pigtails against a canvas of purple titanium.

Oh, and my sunglasses suck.