The Product of Dysfunction

I had a rather lonely childhood. I wasn't technically an only child, but my only sibling is a sister almost ten years older than me. Combine that with parents who, like Britney Spears at the recent VMAs, were well past their prime, and I pretty much raised myself once I hit about age 11. But, this post isn't about those later years. I could write a novel on my post-puberty years, and even typed in miniscule font it would go on for about 800 pages. Yes, life in my parent's house was pretty fucked up.

But, this post is about my younger childhood. I have many friends that have one child in the three-to-five age range. This is a very imaginative time for children, and they really do need siblings or playmates (or siblings as playmates). Well, my sister was too old, I was not yet in school, and my mom wasn't exactly one to get us out and about in playgroups. The result? I was a talkative, open, friendly kid early on, but later on I became shy, unsure and just plain weird.

I suspect that the "weirdness" came from my imaginary friends, David and Daisy. I have no idea where "David" came from, but it could have been a neighborhood kids name, or maybe I heard it on TV. Perhaps it was prophetic and written in the stars, because I ended up marrying someone with the name "David."

Now, Daisy, that's a bit easier. I grew up when the Dukes of Hazzard was the shit, ya'll. I'm not talking about the bastardized version where Jessica Simpson put on hot pants and tries to be sexy when in fact she is just creepy. No, no, the real one that began in the late 70s and ended in '85. Catherine Bach is her name (thanks IMDB). This girl was southern, sassy, had great legs and I WANTED HER TO BE MY FRIEND. Poof! She was.

Daisy, David and I hung out together a lot. I'd walk around talking 4-year old babble to them, then I'd put on my Wonder Woman underoos (complete with construction paper tiara and wristbands) and jump around from sofa to sofa, hoping to impress David with my skills and show Daisy that I would be as cute and sassy as her one day.

I'm not sure to this day what the nature of David and Daisy's relationship really was. Was is sexually-based? We're they "just friends" or maybe a brother/sister combo? I mean, I highly doubt these two would hang out together for days on end just to keep a little girl company and be the only ear that would listen to her. But, then again, I guess that's the best part of imaginary people: they are almost always who you want them to be.

I say "almost always" because there was an accident one day. One day that would forever change our lives and would shake our foundations to the core. Here's what happened: The three of us were sitting in a tree in my backyard, having a chat about kitty cats and She-Ra and He-Man and My Little Ponies when all the sudden David pushed Daisy out of the tree. Was it a jealous rage? I had no way to know. I quickly jumped down to attend to her.

"What's wrong?," I whispered in Daisy's ear, "Are you hurt real bad?"

"I think my leg's broke," she said. "I need a doctor."

I couldn't find a doctor. Shoot, I couldn't even use the phone. My mom, she didn't seem real worried about a little 'ol broken leg. "It'll heal," she'd said, a tad insensitively if memory serves me.

How little she knew. By the time I returned to the scene of the accident, Daisy was dead. DEAD, ya'll.

I cried, David cried. He was guilt-ridden. "Why did you DO that?," I'd asked?

[EDITOR'S NOTE: It's likely David "did it" to put Daisy out of her misery. The sweet release of death is a common request when fully-functional adults are asked to spend weeks on end listening to a little girl who happens to be un-related to them pratter on about dollies, kitties, tadpoles, Cabbage Patch kids, and Jem (who remains truly, truly, truly outrageous).]

But back to my story. I didn't see David again after that day. I suspect he needed to run from the law. Daisy was a cop, and he was going down for Murder One.

You know, it just goes to show you that, even if you could create the ideal person from your imagination, no one is ever without fault. I mean, I don't think it would have been such an imposition on my imagination to abstain from creating a murderer, but still, you get my point.

So, what's a young girl to do when her imaginary friends suddenly vanish, one to a deep dark place and the other for parts unknown (I'll let you guess which is which)?

I took me a pair of scissors and chopped off my kitty cat's whiskers.

RIP Muffy. I miss you everyday and I'm sorry for fucking with your sensory perception. It wasn't nice, but hey, at least they grew back. Eventually.

Fatties

We have two indoor cats. The Italian calls our Siamese cat "Fatty" because, well, she's what we'll call husky. She's a beautiful animal though, and very fiesty. Our other cat, "Cute but Stupid," is a mess, with inexplicable spots in shades of gray, brown, black and striped tabby splashed over her white body with no rhyme or reason. It sounds pretty, but in reality the effect is rather... well, we'll just stick with "unusual" for now. I'll put it this way, it's a good thing she's sweet, because she isn't winning any beauty pageants.

The last time I took Fatty to the vet, I asked the good doctor if she was overweight. The vet took a good look at her and proclaimed, "Well, I'll put it this way. I wouldn't want to see her gain any MORE weight" (with the definite emphasis on "more"). Her status as Fatty was medically confirmed as far at The Italian was concerned. I wasn't so sure, proclaiming, "she's just a solid cat." Turns out we were both right. She's solidly fat.

Anyway, I was reading an article yesterday about obesity and pets. Apparently, there's a two part test to determine if your pet is a good weight: (1) get a bird's eye view on your cat or dog and see if their waistline goes in right before the back hips; (2) feel the rib area, if you can feel them, but not see them, your pet is fine.

My cats failed both tests this morning. Fatties indeed. Looks like three out of four members of my household will be on a diet starting today. The poor Italian, he's going to be living with some cranky females.

Malodorous Day

In general, I dislike blogs where the author does nothing but bitch about how bad her day was. I qualify my last statement with "in general" because bitch is exactly what I'm about to do. If you aren't interested, the little "x" is in the upper right hand corner. I'm just saying.

My day started sadly, when I checked my Blackberry this morning and learned that my co-worker's adult daughter is in the hospital in "grave" condition. This was a complete shock. She has organ failure likely brought on by an eating disorder. She's younger than me and she has two young children. Horrible all around.

Obviously, my co-worker is out for an undetermined about of time. Besides the obvious sadness of the situation, this co-worker is the boss-man's right arm (see earlier blog if you don't know who I'm talking about). She does everything for him, and it's miserable when she's out.

Yeah! Weeks of misery.

I am obviously not so horrible and selfish that I would expect my co-worker to return anytime soon to make my life easier. I just didn't even see this one coming. Usually, I have a little lead time when the shit's going to hit the fan at my office.

I know I should feel lucky, because it could be my family member and that would be so much worse. I hope her daughter rebounds, and quickly. Plus, this co-worker is a wonderful human who never leaves anyone in a lurch, work-wise. She's probably stressed about leaving us "stranded," which is far from the reality. It's just an all-around suckfest of a situation, tu comprends? I'm going to stop writing about this now, because I can't make myself sound anything less than little and horrid.

Then, I had to leave at 11:30 for our treadmill delivery. It was supposed to arrive between 11:30 and 1:30. Want to know what time it got here? 4:45. And the bastards didn't even assemble the damn thing.

Now, I know I have a handful of Caribbean readers. You're likely saying, "What, you mean they told you it would be delivered today and it actually GOT THERE TODAY? What are you complaining about?" But see, it's oh-so-much-different stateside. If a delivery is late, they usually at least call you to let you know, so you can, you know, go back to work to make the money that bought the treadmill so you can buy more stuff. Know what I'm saying, Sears? That's right, I'm calling you out.

I'm in a mood, aren't I? What a mundane, malodorous day. At least I got a lot of work done at home.

On a happier note, isn't "malodorous" a great word? It's so dramatic. Say it a few times, just roll it around. "Mal-oooo-dorous." It's impossible to sound anything other than snooty when saying it.

Because it makes me happy, that's why

Four Seasons, Maui


Dinner in Lahaina, Maui


View from a Four Seasons cabana, Maui

I am slammed at work today. No time to write any long, meaningful prose. Instead, I'm in a Maui mood today. Enjoy these photos from our trip back in 2006.

Lessons from the Dying

I hate those early evening news shows on all the major networks, but I just happened to be tuned on ABC last week as the program was wrapping up. The "Person of the Week" segment singled out a man named Randy Pausch, a damn good computer science professor at Carnegie Mellon University who just happens to by dying of cancer in the prime of his life.

The story focused on the last lecture he gave at Carnegie Mellon on September 18th. I saw just a brief few minutes of this lecture, edited for TV, and was instantly captivated. I quickly went to the computer and found the whole version. I watched over 50 minutes of his lecture and it felt like 15. I implore you to visit this link and watch his riveting speech: http://cmu.edu/uls/journeys/

I'm not normally one for sending out inspirational messages, email forwards with good quotes, or pictures of cute babies. That's the realm of 55+ women, people who lack computer etiquette and well, frankly, my mother-in-law (though she does fit soundly into the two aforementioned categories). Nonetheless, I think everyone should see Randy Pausch's message. He is a scientist, a man with an analytical mind. He knows what's going to happen to him. He won't see another August, another Fourth of July, or another start of the school year for his young children. Despite all of these facts, he is not depressed. He is taking the time to live, and perhaps to reflect on where he has been and how that impacts the person he is today.

I've never encountered a more likeable guy. In his speech, he talks about how being "earnest" is a more important quality in a person than being "hip." About how his career has enabled him to help others achieve their childhood dreams. This is a man who has been successful, in part, because of his ability to relate to people. You can tell in the way he speaks, the way his friends look at him during the lecture, the bonds he mentions to those who've inspired him.

Last week, I wrote a blog about "Lessons from the Dead." This week, I get to say that Randy Pausch's speech is full of "Lessons from the Dying." I wish him continued health and a good, quick death surrounded by those he loves. I wish more time for him. Lastly, selfishly, I wish I could figure out how to be like him, for he is truly an exemplary human.

In the closet

No... not what you're thinking. I've been watching a "What Not to Wear" marathon tonight on TLC. I've been in my closet for the last hour purging and making a list of all the new clothes I need to buy. Yeah, I've got about a $1500 list going. I suspect I'll be cutting that down tomorrow. If not, I'll have to use all of my feminine wiles to get the Italian calmed down when he sees the Amex bill.

I really do need to buy new clothes for work (some of which can transition into my weekend life) but I keep putting it off. I am constantly trying to lose "5-7 pounds" and it's making me put shopping on hold. Actually, I think my body image is making me put a lot of things on hold, but I'm going to hold off on digressing into psychobabble.

So, here's my new thought. I'm not really "fat" right now (size 6) but I want to get back to a four. If I buy sixes and then lose weight, all the new stuff can be easily altered for around $100. I might as well look good now, because there's no point in living for two months from now.

What can I say? I really like good food (I'm not a junk food eater) and if weighing 120 lbs means giving up wine, bread, butter and pasta, I'm not so interested.

On a side note, I'm in a "no dairy" phase to try and reign in a bit of acne that's appeared. I won't bore you all of my research, but there is a major anti-dairy movement out there. Iodine, hormones from pregnant cows and proteins to which humans are allergy-prone are just a handful of the problems. Many believe dairy is a root cause of acne. It's really interesting stuff.

I'm trying it for a month to see what happens. I just finished week one and did have very small amounts of dairy from time to time, once in a small scoop of sour cream, a little bit of butter, and two small pinches of cheese. When you consider that my daily average diet used to contain about 2 ounces of cheese, 7 ounces of yogurt, butter, sour cream a few times a week, and then more cheese, my restriction this week is pretty significant.

Man, if the Italian doesn't come home soon, I may end up writing a novel. That's three posts today.

What's in a name?

I'm slowly starting to post comments to other people's blogs using my new account, so people are finding this blog... slowly but surely. I'm sure it's very confusing to folks to see my moniker, "Island Chica." Lest any confusion ensues, let me clarify: I am in fact a chica, but I don't live on an island. Yet.

I live in the US, but I have an obsession with island travel. That's the reason for the name. My career, though not personally fulfilling, does allow us the luxury of traveling a few times a year, and I've been to St. Martin, Anguilla, St. John, St. Thomas, Jamaica (yuck), Cancun (yuckier), the Bahamas, Aruba, Jost Van Dyke, Virgin Gorda and Maui. When we visit these islands, I prefer to stay in condos, guesthouses, anywhere off the beaten path. I like to feel like I'm part of the local scene as much as possible (not to mention that my way is thousands less than a big resort, which means more frequent trips are possible).

We're going to Costa Rica next year... not an island, but still cool.

My favorite Caribbean islands so far are St. John and St. Martin. I love them both for different reasons. St. John is an escapist's paradise. That's where I indulge my desires to feel close to nature by snorkeling, hiking, and exploring the denser part of the island. St. Martin is a wonderful combination of West Indian and European influences. I've been there five times in as many years. Some feel it's too crowded to really be a paradise, and I might agree. But, it's a hell of a fun place to waste a week or two sunning yourself, drinking wine and filling your belly with baguettes and gouda cheese.

It's my goal to visit all of the major Caribbean islands at some point. The only problem is, I'm stuck on St. John and St. Martin. I'll get there eventually. For today, enjoy my photo of Maho Bay on St. John.

Alone

I am not alone very often. Right now, the Italian is in Key West, enjoying some fishing with his college friends. I wasn't looking forward to it, but can I tell you a little secret? I'm having a great time. The computer, the remote control , the king-size bed, the kitchen - all mine!

Now, don't get me wrong. When the Italian returns on Sunday, I will be happy to see him and will greet him with open arms. But for now, I'm really digging the "me" time. I think I'm going to try a new yoga class tomorrow and go shopping later in the day. Rough, yes?

Last night, the Italian called me from Key West. He and his friends were having beers at the infamous Hog's Breath and were playing in front of the webcam. It was pretty funny, because most the guys were walking around with their cell phones plastered to their ears, chatting with their wives and/or children. Five years ago and these guys would have gone days without calling their significant other, provided they even had one. Oh, what early middle age will do to a man.

Ambivalent

Work has been difficult lately. I'm lacking the proper motivation and attention to detail. I wonder if it's the phenomenal fall weather, beckoning me to be outside and not locked in an office.

Lessons from the Dead

My friend the Yogi has been through too many trials for someone in her 30th year. In the last five years, she's lost both her mother and her brother under tragic circumstances. Her brother was killed less than three years ago in a car accident. I saw him just two weeks before it happened. He and his wife we so happy with their two young children. "We are having so much fun," his wife said to me. Then, abruptly and cruelly, the fun stopped.

The whole family was devastated, and rightly so. This brother, father and son was really cool guy, someone who managed to be sensitive but still manly. And, most importantly, someone who loved his family dearly and made sacrifices for them. Had he lived, I feel certain he would have become an important man in politics, eventually, after his children were past young childhood.

In many ways, the bond of loss drew the Yogi and I closer together. In between her losses, I lost my father. Grief understands grief. I've tried to be the best friend possible from a distance of 500 miles.

Recently, the Yogi's sister-in-law made a difficult choice: she was going to get remarried. And not just to some dude, but to her late husband's best friend. It was an emotional choice and one that neither of them took lightly. Apparently, feelings had been brewing for quite some time on both sides, both of them ignored these feelings for a while, but eventually these things have a way of bubbling to the surface. So, they bubbled, they got engaged, and now they've formed a new family.

Instead of doing a traditional wedding announcement, I found an article in their local newspaper commemorating my friend's brother. It's about all the things his friends are doing to remember him. There's a golf tournament, a scholarship, outings with his children, and the list goes on. The recent remarriage of his wife is mentioned, but the emphasis is on her late husband's legacy. The point of the article is that if a person is measured by the loyalty his friends have to his memory, he must have been a great man.

All of this got me thinking, if I died tomorrow, would my friends by that loyal to my memory? Have I created a tightly woven network of people would feel an instability in their foundation if I disappeared? The answer, I'm afraid, is no. Maybe I'm just not that engaging (possible) but I think it's more that I haven't gotten involved, haven't sacrified of myself. I wasn't raised in a household that did that for other people. My mother is selfish, and I've followed in her footsteps.

Though it's common to canonize the dead, in some cases the person who died deserves the credit for a life well-lived. Such is the case here. It speaks volumes that, years after his death, friends that have busy lives, who've moved on, married and had more children are still gathering in his memory.

I want that sort of network. I want that sort of meaningful life. I just don't know how to get it. I figure getting involved in something is a good start, even if it's just a yoga class or running club where I can at least meet people. Then, I can work to strengthen the bonds I do have, to listen more than speak, and help even when it's terribly inconvenient for me.

The Car God has spoken

We had some intense car drama last week. After taking our car to two auto parts stores and having the battery tested, we determined that the BMW battery was, in fact, dead. The Italian, handy specimen of manhood that he is, bought a new one and installed it himself. I like useful men.

Next, he turned to the little matter of the mysterious hole in my windshield wiper fluid container. Here's the kicker folks: there was no hole. Even worse, the dealership failed to put our car back together. The whole unit was out, pumps and all. That explained the mysterious loose bolt rolling around in our engine. Apparently, they took it out to look at our headlight (nothing was wrong with it) and I guess they found it too tiresome to put it back together before we picked up our car.

The Italian took matters into his own hands and put that back together as well. I do love a mechanically minded man. In fact, the whole thing was kind of hot. Dirty hot, you know what I mean?

The end result is that my car is fixed, at least for now. AND we saved about $500 thanks to The Italian.

Boring post? Yes. It's Monday, don't expect to much out of me. "Functioning" is about the best you're gonna get.

I want my Honda back

I don't really care what I drive. A car gets you from point A to B, and so long as it holds up its end of the bargain and does so reliably, I'm satisfied. There's only ever been one exception to my "I don't care what I drive" rule, and right now, it's ruining my life.

See, a couple of years ago, we decided that we had enough money to buy almost any car on the market. Seeing as we're childless and all, I chose my dream car, a BMW 3 Series convertible. It's a nice car. I've always owned Honda's in the past, and the BMW was a major step up. The leather, the heated seats, the acceleration, the wind in your hair. I love it. What I don't love is the BMW dealership that's dicking us around right now and wasting hours of our time.

Here's what happened: we took the car in on Tuesday for a scheduled oil change. Predictably, they called and told us a list of things wrong with our car: "metal on metal" brakes, a dead battery, etc. A DEAD battery? What? The car has 50K miles on it and has started up just fine the other 2,500 times I've turned the key in the ignition. Including Tuesday morning, when I brought it in. "Nope, it won't hold a charge," says our "Service" representative.

He calls 15 minutes later to tell us the battery is magically working now. Uh-huh. (*cough* - bullshit - *cough*)

So we went in to see for ourselves. After waiting 40 minutes (!) in a nearly empty service department, we finally got some help. My husband quickly noted there are 3mm left on my brakepads, which is not a ton of buffer, but definitely not "metal on metal." They think we're fools. The mechanic bumbled his way through it, and we just left feeling dirty and schemed. The car seemed to be starting fine. In the end, we just took the car and paid for our oil change.

Then, two things happened. First, my car wouldn't start up as usual last night. It's slow to turn over. The battery is, in fact, bad. Second, I'm out of wiper fluid. Okay, fine, a $3.00 fix at Advance Auto. Only problem? There's now a HOLE in the bottom of my wiper fluid container. A HOLE! Oh, not to mention the random bolt rolling around under the hood.

Seriously, for the love of fuck. What did they do to my car?

So, the "service manager," some douche with a first name for a last name, meaning he has two first names, has been calling us. They won't admit they fucked our car up, so they keep saying "Just bring it back in and let us evaluate it. I need to know if my employees made a mistake." They are offering a $200 gift certificate to a restaurant group for our efforts. At this point, I want the gift certificate, a refund of my oil charge, and an appointment whereby my husband and I stand there and watch the mechanic work on our car. You think I trust them to work on my car now unattended after what's happened?

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

We've had other trials and tribulations in this drama, including a service person at PepBoys go ballistic on us last night when we were trying to get our battery checked. I asked the mechanic, "What's wrong with Jorge?" And he replied "Oh, he's just an angry Peruvian." Well, I'm an angry white chick, please don't fuck with me. I'll sue you. I didn't say that, but I wanted to.

I really hate to quote a barely-par American Idol finalist, but Chris Daughtry spoke some damn true words when he said "Be careful what you wish for, 'cause you just might get it all. And then some you don't want." Such is the case with my BMW.

These are the days when I yearn for my Honda Civic.

On this day...

September 11th is really our generation's "Where were you when JFK was shot?," only on a much more tragic, everyman kind of level. Unlike JFK, who was a President and in that respect made himself vulnerable to attack, most of the people who died that day were good people who spent their time working, paying the bills, going out to eat, falling in love, falling out of love, having children and all the other little joys and sorrows that come with being human.

I feel remiss in writing nothing about 9/11/01 on this most horrible of anniversaries. There are no words, really, but here's what I wrote in response to the question: Where were you on 9/11?

"I’ve never been a religious person, but I was in a church when the second plane hit the south tower of the WTC. I was newly engaged and we were searching for a church for our ceremony. I heard a brief news bulletin on the radio that a plane had hit one of the towers… but it was a small plane, they thought. No further info.

I went into the church, talked to the wedding coordinator, came out about 30 minutes later, and by then the whole damn world was turned upside down. The second plane had hit, and it was clear that this was no accident. Not knowing what else to do, I went into work.

I live in the [Mediocre City] area, and I worked Downtown at the time. My office was on the 29th floor of a building less than two blocks from [insert major news network] headquarters. The walls were all glass, with no offices ringing the outer perimeter. Great views, but I’ve never felt so unsafe and exposed in my life. Once I arrived at the office, I saw that DC had been hit. I took my stuff and just left. My now-husband and I went to his place in the [Mediocre City] suburbs, a safe distance from downtown.

I remember I took a nap that day. I recall saying to my now-husband: “I can’t just sit around watching this TV, waiting for more planes to crash into buildings. Wake me up when it’s all over.”

Fortunately we didn’t lose anyone dear to us that day. My husband has many cousins, aunts and uncles who work in the city, some of them on Wall Street. We were lucky.

I remember I’ve never felt so vulnerable in my life. For months afterwards, the military was running drills through downtown. Military helicoptors would zoom over top of our building. It was very unnerving to see them coming, only to pull upward as they drew nearer to our building.

I also remember how quiet it was outside. It’s odd to look up and see no planes in the sky… or to hear them. I remember flying my first cross-country direct flight from [Mediocre City] to Sacramento, CA in October 2001. I was shaking. The flight was nearly empty. I was terrified, which I guess was the whole point of 9/11, now wasn’t it?"

Birth of my new blog

Hello everyone. I have a blog right now, but my name and photos are tied to it. Frankly, I got tired of editing my thoughts "just in case" someone I wrote about stumbled upon it and read something unfavorable. So, this new blog is to dish.

I am a 30-something attorney and I am already burnt out. I named this blog "The Billing Room" because that's what I do all day - bill my time in six, yes six, minute increments. It's mind boggling, really. My little office has become a hotbed of boring billing activity. I need to vent, and I don't hand-write... so a diary is out.

Blogging it is then.

A little bit more about myself: I'm married to a husband who keeps me sane. I've become addicted to travel, not so much the "drink yourself through Europe while pining about the state of the world" travel, but more adventure-related traveling. I love island destinations and anyplace where nature is the emphasis.

Life in The Billing Room sucks. Travel keeps me sane. Welcome to my little world.