Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost Ant

Houston, we have an ant problem.

I knew to expect bugs here in Florida and we have actually been lucky with the lack of spiders or roaches that have appeared in our house. 

But these “ghost” or “sugar” ants have turned out to be harder to kill than *insert over-used actor’s name*’s career.

It all began shortly after we moved in.  We were just beginning to set things up when Joe first noticed ants on the kitchen counters.  At first we figured it was just one or two passing by.  But once we started to see regular commuters, we realized something would have to be done.  It was our very first real homeowner problem.

So Joe looked up exterminators and found one he liked called “Good News Pest Control” and booked them.  Fortunately, at the time, I was working from home so I would be able to be there for them when they arrived.  Much to my surprise, when the truck pulled up, a woman hopped out.  I’m not sexist or anything, but when you imagine an exterminator you think of either a big hulking rotund guy or a teeny geeky pipsqueak.  She looked to be about 40ish with long braided blonde hair and a lean physique. 

She came in and after a few pleasant exchanges, I showed her where we were seeing the ants.

“Oh yeah,” she said, “these are ghost ants.  You often see them looking for water, so they usually show up in bathrooms or kitchens,” she explained, showing me the pinhole sized space the ants were coming from.  She then sprayed along the glass block and into every corner.  Finally she put out some traps.

“These are all natural and will lure the ants out like crazy, but don’t kill them.  You want them to take the food back with them to the queen.  And besides, if you kill them, the queen will only send more and to other places in your house.”

I was impressed.  I was getting a lesson in entomology along with my extermination service.  I asked more questions until eventually she began simply telling me about herself and her job. 

Then it got a little weird.

“That’s just the way Jesus Christ had it intended for us.  To follow in his light,” she said with half her body inside the cabinet we keep our garbage bin.  I nodded along in agreement, not really sure what to say.  I was a little thrown, but she was still very nice and informative, so I just shrugged it off.  If she’s happy in her faith and believes what she believes, who am I to say anything?

As the year went by, we booked the “bug lady” to spray the exterior of our house a few times to keep bugs away as a preventative and the ant sightings ended. 

Until about two months ago.  

I began seeing them running through our dishwasher, in our sink, and even in our bathroom.  When I began taking a double take at my moving quinoa, I knew it was time for another spray inside, so we booked the bug lady again.

She arrived and began spraying around the kitchen and bathroom, and once again we began chatting. 

And this time, the discomfort factor went up a notch.

“Are you a believer in Jesus Christ?” she asked.  Once again, I fumbled for the right words.

“Well, you know…I was raised Catholic…ummm…not really practicing anymore…” I was stammering to explain my religious affiliation as I straightened the pajamas that I was still wearing and tried to maintain my dignity.

“Well, you know…only when you accept Him as your supreme savior will you find the everlasting light and love.  It is only through him that we can achieve total happiness for ourselves and for others,” she preached as she continued her ant apocalypse.  I couldn’t help but be amazed at the irony.

So after she finished I thanked her profusely and saw her out.  After she left, I had a new queasy feeling in my stomach.  I’m still not sure if it’s because I didn’t have a better answer to her probing question or that chances are I’ll have to see her again when the ants, one day, rise again.

Something Old, Something New

Are you happy with your job?  Are you where you imagined you'd be in your professional life?  Do you wake up in the morning and, for the most part, excited to get to work?

I'm not.  But I'd like to be.

I look around at my friends and every one of them seems to have found their rightful place in the world.  Every one of them is making great strides at their respective offices, completing interesting projects, or making valuable and prosperous connections, and if they aren't, they are on their way to doing something else, boldly and bravely.

I, on the other hand, often say that I feel like a square peg stuck in a round hole.  I just haven't found my niche, my calling, my raison d'être.  And I know that it's purely by my own doing.  I take jobs that are easy or interesting at the moment but not long-lastingly fulfilling instead of pursuing something I'm genuinely passionate about.   And it's because I'm afraid if I fail at it, I'm failing myself.

I'm also terrified of what people will say if I tell them the things I'd like to do.  I feel silly and frivolous suggesting things like working in the health field or becoming a dog trainer.  I could imagine the thought bubbles emerging from their heads like in a comic book- 'You have no experience.'  'You'll lose more money than you'll gain.'  You're too old to start something new.'

Of course no one has actually said these things to me, and in fact, more likely, I am projecting my own fears and questions into the minds of others.  I know my friends and loved ones genuinely want to see me happy.  Especially Joe...

Before he left for his big trip last week, we decided to head out to a local brewery to toast his adventure and my birthday.  It was Friday night, and I was anxious to cut loose after another long week of putting in early mornings and late nights.

We sat outside and after we ordered a few flights of beer, he began excitedly talking about his day and his visit to the bank.

"There were all these pamphlets on small business loans.  We could totally do that!  Imagine us having our own store-front of vintage items, having a listening room for records or a playing room for old video games..." as his gaze extended well into our possible future, the light in his eyes shining with hopeful promise, my stomach churned.

I tried to change the subject, but he gently pressed to see what was wrong.  I kept telling him I didn't want to think about it and stared blankly at my half empty hefferveisen, trying to hide my fear.  Then, after we had volleyed a few empty comments back and forth, he took my hands in his.

"Look at me," he said.  I did.

"I have a say in your life now.  I have a say in how I can make you happy, because that's all I want to do for the rest of our lives.  Because if you aren't happy, I can't be."

My body shook, and not just from the progressively chilly, damp air now surrounding us-  I shook with the realization that he's right.  Being married meant more than just sharing a bathroom and a mortgage- we were partners in the business of making sure we were both happy.  Till death.

And it isn't enough to find enjoyment in our social lives; I need to find a way to be happy in my professional life like he had.  We tried to salvage the evening but his thoughts had lingered on my mind more than I realized.  Even after I hugged and kissed him goodbye in the middle of the night, I felt heavy.

The mood hadn't lifted, even when my friends came over for our book club meeting.  Joe's words and expression clung to me and I found it difficult to shake them off and be good company to my friends. After the book had been discussed we all ventured into the pool and began talking about the latest events in our lives.  When the subject of work came up, I felt compelled to finally get the thoughts out and see what the girls had to say.

They were supportive, of course, and helpful.  They listened intently as I described Joe's and my conversation and how I had yet to find what makes me happy.

"I thought about opening a store, like a record store...," I said.

"Or what about an antique shop?" Alejandra suggested.

"Yes!  I would love that," I blurted out without thinking.  It took a few seconds for my rational thoughts to catch up and actually consider this idea.  I don't know much about antiques or vintage things, but that doesn't mean I couldn't learn.  This thought became a tiny seedling of hope that I nurtured in the back of my mind the rest of the afternoon and by the time I went over to visit my parents, it had grown.

"Mom, wouldn't it be fun to open an antique store or a vintage shop?" I said.

"Oh that would be so fun!" my mom replied.  I recognized that same gleam of hope and excitement that had been in Joe's eyes that night.  It made me smile.

So the next day, the seedling had grown fruit, and I was able to chew on it as I did my work.  I came home and began looking up articles about opening and operating some kind of vintage shop.  I began coming up with ideas for getting our business noticed and non-traditional ways to buy and sell our goods.  I even forced myself to consider my own personal negative scenarios- dealing with rude customers, failing to meet sales goals and running out of money.  All terrifying to me...but not as terrifying as waking up at 50 years old and realizing your life has slipped past you because you were too afraid to try and take hold of it.  I have to try and save my life.  I have to try something- anything.

I can't say for sure this idea will come to fruition.  There's so much to still consider and plan out.  And  I'm not even sure this is what I am meant to be doing with my life.  But I have a feeling, surrounding myself in the artifacts of other people who lived and loved, touching the lamps or books or shoes that were loved enough to avoid a trash heap, I might gain a new outlook on my life- in an old, vintage outfit.

Worked Up

Recently, I was visiting my friend Rachel's house for the first time for our book club meeting, and after we had discussed the book, she guided us around on a little tour.  As we walked around, I noticed a picture on her wall.  It was a photograph of her surrounded by a bunch of girls with a stripper pole in the background.  

"Oh that was from my bachelorette.  My friends and I took a pole-dancing lesson," she explained.

Seeing that immediately brought back an old memory of my one and only pole-dancing experience.  It was years ago, back in Baltimore.  I was at a party hosted by a coworker and I began chatting with his fiancee.  We hit it off and eventually she invited me to join her for a work-out class.

"Just to let you know, it's a little bit different.  How do you feel about pole-dancing?" she asked.

I gulped.  I had tried a few of the group work-out classes offered at the college gym, and all I could remember about them was that I looked spastic in comparison to the slick moves and gyrating pelvises of my fellow exercisers. I promised myself I wouldn't subject myself (or others) to my uncoordinated movements.

Still, the idea of trying out pole-dancing intrigued me, and since she assured me it would be just the two of us and the instructor, I decided to try it out.  If for no other reason, I figured I would get a good work-out.

What I ended up working out was my frustrations and humiliations.

I arrived at the studio and walked in.  I had dressed in my typical exercise gear- sweats and sneakers.  But when I saw my friend, I realized I was unusually overdressed.  She was wearing a tight fitting tank top, short shorts and actual stripper heels.  I looked down at my scuffed up old Nike's and the exercise pants I bought off the clearance rack at the University Union, and felt ridiculous.  What the hell was I thinking?  I was purposely going to a class that was based around learning sexy moves, and I dressed like I was going to be moving a sofa.  

Besides helping to achieve a proper, sexy mindset, there is also a practical sense to dressing skimpily.  The instructor explained that you held a better grip on the pole using your own flesh.  So while my friend warmed up by slinking and draping herself against the pole, I tried hiking up my pant legs and smashing up my sleeves.  I thought my sneakers would still be OK, but the instructor told me I had to nix them and just try it barefoot.  I should probably mention that this was during the winter time, when a pedicure is not top-of mind.

So there I was, trying to match the instructor and my friend's seductive moves.  As they both slithered against the pole, I simply clung to it for dear life.  They clasped the pole with their thighs and elegantly bent backwards, and slid down.  I tried to do the same but lost some of my sex appeal as my thighs squealed and screeched down the pole.  I even tried to do a jump and twirl, but I didn't realize my own weakness and ended up swinging my legs around too hard, slamming my knee cap into the pole.  I slithered down it then, too- wincing all the way down.

Thus ended my pole-dancing career.  I thanked my friend for inviting me and for the memorable experience, but was certain I would never get a call back from The Hustler Club anyway.  I might try it again someday, but next time I'll make sure to pack some stripper heels...and Icy Hot.

For The Dogs

One of the best things about having visitors is finally having an excuse to try some things you've always wanted to do around your town but never got around to.  Joe's parents were here for a few weeks, and towards the end of their visit, we began trying to come up with some new things to do.

Last Thursday when we were on our way to trivia at Ed's Tavern, Barb, Joe's mom, and I began talking about something to do for Friday.

"You know what I'd like to do...," she began with a coy smile.  I wondered what she could have in mind.  "I'd like to visit the dog track."

I was intrigued.  I had driven by the dog track in Sarasota a few times and always wondered about it.  So while Joe was going to be out filming, his mom, dad (also named Joe) and I would take in a few races.

Now, the only racing experience I ever had was going to the horse track back in New Jersey at Monmouth Park.  We would go once in a while during the summer, and once I was old enough to gamble, it became much more exciting.  And while it's no longer the jewel it once was, it still had a lot of charm.

As we walked into the sparse building, illuminated with harsh fluorescent lights and cheap beer signs, I had to smile.  This was a place that had no disillusionment about itself.  It's a rough and ready place built for the enjoyment for those with small pockets in need of cheap thrills.  I like places like that.

Joe bought the program and we walked up to a window to place our bets.  With tickets in hand, we went in search of a spot to watch the races and grab a bite to eat.  We carefully ascended the wet outdoor stairs and came into a half-restaurant/half viewing area.  Tables were set into cornered off boxes and went up several levels.  We stepped up to the hostess stand and were met by an older woman and a waitress with a bloodied eye.  The older woman led us to a table right in front of the window that overlooked the track and she began telling us about her experience training horses for races- in fact, it turns out she worked the Preakness in Baltimore and even visited Monnmouth Park a few times.

She gave us some pointers on how to bet and then showed us where we could place our bets.  Barb and I went up to the betting window first.  I was already fascinated by the people we would see enjoying a past-time that seemed well past it's prime, but it was even more fascinating see the people that still made their living there.

We approached two old men sitting behind what looked like cash registers from the 80s.  I followed Barb's lead and went to the less frightening of the two.  I listened to her wording when placing her bet, but I decided to be a little less cautious.

"$2 for KB Oscar to place."

The grizzled old man scowled at me.  "Wha?"  So I repeated.  

"$2 for KB Oscar to place, please."

"I don't know what you're saying."  Feeling flustered, I practically shoved the program in his face, pointing to the dog's name.  When he still didn't understand, I simply said, "Number six...to place."

"Oh, six to place," seemingly less tense now that the misunderstanding had been cleared.

I walked back to our table with ticket in hand, but I couldn't understand why the man had been so confused.  I relayed the story to Barb and Joe and as we looked at the program a little closer, we realized why.

"This is the third race, not the fourth.  We've been betting on the wrong race!" Barb said.  We all laughed and groaned at our mistake.

After that, we began betting on the right races, and managed to all win a little something here and there.  But as we were waiting for the next race to begin, I watched as the dogs were led to the track.  Meanwhile the announcer described each dog.  So-and-so from someplace, weighing in at 60 pounds.  So-and-so from another place, 72 pounds.  

I noticed one dog sniffing the grass and suddenly squat to do it's business, and a funny thought popped into my brain.  Barb and Joe are some of the most relaxed and easy-going people, I so I thought I'd share it.

"You know what would be funny?  If the announcer saw that dog pooping and said, 'Number 4, weighing at 75- no, wait....72 1/2 pounds.'"

We both busted out laughing and after we shared it with Joe, we began to place bets on which dogs coming out were going to relieve themselves before the race.  

Yes, it was a classy night all around.  I don't know if I'll ever go to the dog racetrack again, but thanks to my in-laws, I can at least say I've gone once.  And I did love the low-down, laid-back attitude of the place.  You come to a place like that and leave your expensive loafers and pretensions at home, because when you're here, highfalutin is for the dogs :)

When the Joe's Away...

After ten long days, Joe will finally be on his way back home tomorrow.  I am so unbelievably proud of him for pursuing this project and putting in all the long days of shooting and interviewing, driving late into the night and getting up at dawn, sleeping wherever he can and still making time to visit with old friends.  He's a rock star.  

It's been hard to be without him for this long, but in truth, as much as I hate to be apart from him, there are SOME things that I can really only fully enjoy when he is off on another adventure.

Here's my list of my favorite non-Joe activities.

1.)  Watch the tragically-trashy or dramatically-delicious shows I love (that he can't resist making fun of me for).

Joe and I agree on several television shows that we both enjoy watching.  But for every "Walking Dead", "Homeland", and "Better Call Saul" there is also a need for me to watch "RuPaul's Drag Race", "Downton Abbey", or "Real Housewives of Atlanta".  And while he is away, I can happily indulge in these girly or junk programs without the judgemental eye-roll or unwelcome commentary.

2.)  Do my nails.

I'm not sure if this is a guy-thing or a Joe-specific-thing, but Joe can't STAND the sound of an emory board being used.  If I ever need to do my nails, I have to hide in the bathroom or wait till he is settled in another room before I bring out the dreaded device.  But when he is gone from the house for an extended period of time, I like to think of it as a treat, rather than a chore.  I bring out the lotions and pretty nail colors and make sure I have a snack and/or glass of wine at the ready so while my nails are drying, I can feel pampered.

3.)  Eat terribly.

Joe is on this pretty strict diet, and I have been trying to be supportive by creating healthy meals and abstaining from junk food right along with him.  But since he is gone, I am tossing the diet aside and allowing myself ice cream, fast food, pizza, and anything else sugary, salty, cheesy, or carb-y.  The other day, I made a meal out of my leftover spaghetti and meatballs AND two slices of pizza.  I know I'll regret it when he gets home because he'll be all sweet and want to cuddle and I'll feel bloated and puffy.  But at least I will have satisfied those terrible cravings for a little while....at least until he ventures off again lol.

Still, as much as I  treasure these little moments I carve out for myself, I would happily trade every episode of Downton Abbey and every Chik-Fil-A nugget to have him back home safely.  (And because I know he'll be reading this- yes, Joe, I DO mean it :) )

What about you?  What do you enjoy doing when your significant other is away?

Welcome Back, Bott-er

Who were you in high school?  I like asking people this because it forces them to reflect on the person they were and they person they are now.  And for many of us, there's little difference between the two.  I thought I was different from the awkward, unsure, desperately-trying-to-disappear teenager I used to be, trying to survive on the outskirts of the high school social scene.  But it turns out, after starting this new job, I haven't evolved much.

When I first started, the HR person took me around to get acquainted with the building.  I was amazed to see such a variety of people chatting in the break room, milling about in the hallways and taking walks outside- and all different age groups too.  I felt an excited buzz, wondering what group would accept me and who my new friends would be.  As the days wore on, the novelty of my presence began to fade, and with it my sense of self.  I began to feel those old insecure feelings creep back in, and soon I began to fear even the sound of my own voice trying to chime in on conversations around me.

Instead, I decided it might be safest to just be the nice, sweet, quiet type, which I've been maintaining for a few weeks now.  In the meantime, I've been listening and observing to see who's in what clique. Much like the laws of high school, the popular crowd is most obvious.  And one of the major ring leaders is a girl I have just been calling Popular Girl.  Every high school had at least one of them:  beautiful, loud, confident, but with a sharp edge that wasn't easily gotten around.  You either slid onto her good side, or she cut you like a razor.  She is surrounded by the usual side-kicks-: Athletic Girl, Nerd-but-not-really Girl, Sweet Girl and Tough Girl.  And of course, no clique would be complete without the menfolk to round them out.  We have a Jock-Guy, Former Jock-Guy, Mr. Slick, Mr.  Everyone-Needs-to-Think-I'm-Funny Guy and The Quiet-or-Pissed-Off Guy.

I watch them interact with each other and outsiders, and it's amazing how thoroughly they dominate.  The conversation steers where they want it to go, they forcibly elicit interest and laughs in whatever they say, and always, Popular Girl is at the head, reminding us all that she's been here the longest, and so she has to be the loudest.

I know- high school is over, right?  And I'm being ridiculous.  I'm not 16 anymore.  Hell, I'm not even 26 anymore...I'm a 30 year-old who's got a wonderful husband, a mortgage, car payments, credit card debt, and many treasured friendships.  But I've got even more than that.  I've been to places, experienced things, and with thoughts and stories I'd love to share.  And that should be enough to force me to stand on my feet and straighten my shoulders, look the popular crowd in the eyes, and make them notice me- the real me.  And be happy to not fit in, just as I never really did.

But the truth is, as much as I loathe to admit it, I secretly wish I could know that kind of powerful confidence.  Or at least be one of those people who truly doesn't care what people think.  I ask people how they do that, as if it's something as natural as being able to whistle or roll your tongue or eat mayonnaise.  It's a talent that never dripped down to me.  All I can do for now is sit quietly at my desk, smile whenever someone is near me, eat my lunch in the bathroom, and wait.

I just hope I don't have to wait another four years.  

Torn Between Two Offers

Sometimes, when spirit, or fate, or God, or whatever your preferred nomenclature for the ethereal being that guides your faith, answers your pleas, it comes as a shout rather than a whisper.

What the hell am I talking about?  Last week, I wrote about losing one job and this week, I am writing about deciding between two new ones.

Granted, nothing is official yet, but the job I interviewed with yesterday has basically promised me a position of some kind so I have until later today to make my decision.

Meanwhile, the job I interviewed with on Tuesday sounded promising as well.  In fact, the librarian I would be working under showed me around so that I could get a head start on getting acquainted with the library.  The next step is for me to complete one of those ProveIt Microsoft tests that measures proficiency of certain programs, like Word or PowerPoint-but maybe I'm getting ahead of my story and I should give more background details.

Of all the jobs I sent my resume out to, these jobs as a library assistant or the research assistant for a collectibles company were the two I was most excited about.  The library assistant job, because I always thought I would enjoy working in a library setting, and the research assistant, because I love history and would enjoy getting to work hands-on with it.  Unbelievably, I snagged interviews with both, but the library job contacted me first.

It was getting late last Sunday night when I checked my email and noticed a message from the library saying they received my resume and that it would be getting passed along to the hiring manager.  My hopes swelled but I was cautious not to get too excited just yet- after all, it could've been just a standard form email that was sent out to all applicants.

Happily, I received another email in the morning, but this time it was sent personally from Valerie*, the human resources department point person.  I was about to become ecstatic until I read the email a little further....

"The position pays ***.  If you're still interested, let's set-up an interview."  My heart sank.  The pay was much less than what I was making previously and I knew it would mean I would definitely need to take a second job.  I would do it if need be, of course, but I wasn't thrilled with the prospect.  Still, I was excited to finally have a valid excuse to peel my ass off the couch, so I wrote her back and agreed to an interview.

When I arrived, I was amazed by the beautiful campus and how close it was to my home.  I imagined myself riding a bike to work everyday and saving money on gas.  I'd need to save every penny I could if I took this job, the cynical part of my brain chimed in.  I had gotten there early so I sat in the cafeteria.  As I watched all the promising students chatting with their classmates or studying quietly by the window, most of which are years younger than me, I couldn't help but reflect on my own choices with schooling and major, wondering if I had made a mistake that cost me job security and direction.  

I didn't have time to mull it over any longer because just then Valerie arrived.  I followed her into a conference room while we exchanged greetings.  Then, another older gentleman arrived and introduced himself.  I gulped tightly as my throat went dry.  I didn't even consider the possibility of doing an interview with another person in the room.  Valerie then switched on the phone and I was introduced to yet another person that worked in the northern division of the company.  I had a mini panic attack as I tried to gather my thoughts, which were now loose and rolling around like marbles.  I'd be answering questions from not just one, but three individuals.

Fortunately, I managed to get through the process with no issue and garnered a few smiles in response to my answers.  I sighed when it was nearing the end.  I had done well. 

"How would you like to get a tour of the library you'd be working in?" the man said.  He showed me around this bright room with tables everywhere, many of which were occupied by focused students and their piles of books.  We had a perfect view of the fountain out back, and the glass windows made the room cheerful and light.  I thanked him for the tour and as I left I tried to see myself going there everyday.  

The next day, following some advice that Joe gave me, I decided to send one final email to the first company I had pursued when I first realized I was going to be losing my job.  There was an available position for a research assistant for a collectibles company that intrigued me, so I had applied.  I heard back from them the day after I accepted the position at the "other" job, asking me to complete their application.  I had ignored it until I began the new job and realized how unhappy I was, and then I began digging through my email and submitted the application with vigor.  As the days ticked by with no response, desperation and depression began to sink in, and I began to accept that I had missed my chance.  

Then, a few nights ago while sitting on the couch and talking about it more with Joe, he suggested I contact them one more time.

"What could it hurt?" he said.  I thought about it the next day, as I sat in front of my computer and found the HR person's email.  I sighed, and sent out one more professional but endearing email, figuring I was sending it out to the universal abyss.

Much to my shock and delight, I heard back from her within an hour.  I immediately wrote back and before I knew it we had set up an interview for the next day.

I arrived a few minutes early and was amazed at the stone structure with a luxurious lobby.  As I waited, I walked around the room, looking at the cool old maps and fossils.  I felt like a character in a Jules Verne novel, waiting to meet the explorer that I would accompany to the Amazonian jungle.

When the HR woman, Karen*, finally emerged from one of the rooms, she led me into a small office.  We spoke for a few minutes and then I was able to meet a few more employees one-on-one.  I felt my stomach tighten nervously at first, but as I talked more and more, I began to get comfortable and confident.  I could see myself in this job immediately.  I could see myself, years down the line, expertly eyeing items and keying in their information, learning history and interesting tidbits.  

When Karen returned, she let me know that they believe they could find a place for me here and what the next steps would be.  As I shook her hand goodbye, I felt suddenly light but thoughtful.  I left and came home to discuss it more with Joe, who noticed my bright and excited attitude.  He held my hand and looked at me sweetly, saying, "think about where you were three weeks ago.  And now, everything is working out.  I knew you'd be ok."

And for the first time in almost two months, I believed I would be.

Have you ever been torn between two jobs?  What was your final decision and what was the ultimate factor?