Her Bedroom Voice

It wasn't like that, nothing sultry or sexual. Just soft. She spoke into the phone, and I listened from across the room. She sounded different; usually it's her daughter on the end of the line, asking and demanding and she is tolerant, short. But today she sounded different. Her voice was low, slow. Worn, folding around her words like soft leather in the palm of your hand. I felt like a fly on the wall next to their bed, across her pillow as she talked in low tones about the day, the year, their life. I imagine his eyes in clear blue and weathered around the corners, the scruff on his cheek bristling against the sheet. His hand is in her hair or on her side, just resting there.

It's day, and we're working, she and I, across the same office space. But he calls, and you can hear their history sinking through, into her bedroom voice.

Crush

My friend recently pointed me in the direction of Orangette promising an excellent read, and she couldn't have been more right (Thanks, Em!). What I took at first to be another cooking blog has turned out, upon closer inspection (read: an ounce of attention) to be the most deliciously-written web writing I've read in a very long time. It's the kind of writing that reminds me to breathe, to slow down and take a look around; the kind that reminds me that there's magic in all the small things if I would just take a second to notice them. It's the kind of writing that makes me want to write, to document the tiny miraculous beautiful things that happen every day. Like today? The sun is out and it is warm. Winter is not nearly over but today I can believe in spring, can remember that it is, in fact, right around the corner in so many ways. Today I walked with jacket unzipped, mittens stowed deep in pockets, face lifted to the sky, soaking in the brightness of day. Tonight, the sun will set and the winter chill of a February evening will settle in, but not without the remainders of fragrant spring, just barely hanging on.

Orangette reminds me of so many writers I used to read, back when blogs were simple and unique, when only writers flocked here; those with something and nothing to say, saying it into a precious, simple void. Her writing reminds me of my well-loved blogs of yore, when inspiration was everywhere and I couldn't stop writing about it. Lately though, I've gotten shy and quiet, uncertain about what to say and who might be listening. I've stopped writing for me, but the irony, I suppose, is that blogging has always been a public feat. The challenge is to return to my own precious void, to write as if no one is reading and in that, to find the voice that brings me closer to the magic in every day.

It's not easy; it is rarely achieved. But reminders like this make me want to keep trying.

Babysitting

The baby is fine. She has a cold; coughs, intermittently, through the electronic device on the kitchen counter. Otherwise, sleeps soundly. Meanwhile, the dog vomits in her crate. Her entire dinner. And proceeds to eat it. Later, she licks my sock.

I didn't sign up for this.

The Saddest Old People in the World

Every month I receive a slew of voice messages on my cell phone from old people asking about the medical invoices they say I have sent them. Now, I know what you're thinking. When did Elli become a geriatric specialist and start charging for her services? And the answer is never; that plan is still in the works. But for some reason, these old people are very convinced that I have invoiced them and not only that, but I have charged them incorrectly, or they already paid me, or they want me to resubmit to their insurance.

The first time this happened I was totally confused but figured someone had simply mis-dialed the number of their medical care provider. But since then I have received no fewer than four calls every month, always with similar messages from similarly shaky, old person voices on the other end of the wire. I'm starting to think that either a.) I have a secret life that even I don't know about or b.) my number is annoyingly close to that of a doctor's office. For the sake of argument, we'll go with the latter.

These messages always bring me down. To begin with, old people are just about the saddest thing ever. I know they don't want my pity and that not every old person is a sack of sobs, but seriously. I can't think of much more depressing than being forced to live through your own deterioration, not to mention that of those around you. What's more, these old people are calling me because they are dealing with things even I hate dealing with, things that are so infuriatingly common that I can't imagine the pleasantness of a world without them: medical expenses, billing errors and insurance headaches. To add to this, these people are old, and they're visiting doctors because they are ill, which means that they are dying, and this is all about as much as I can take.

So I've started calling them back. It seemed like the right thing to do; it seemed only fair for them to know right away that they had called the wrong person, that their message hadn't gone through, and that no one at the medical office was going to call them back. Usually I get answering machines where I leave garbled messages, unsure of how to explain the situation. Sometimes people pick up; this has never turned out well. Once the person got mad at me, incredulous that I couldn't tell them the right number and the right person to call. I tried explaining that I don't know! I don't work there! I don't even know who you were trying to call, but it wasn't me! I hung up dejected, knowing that I hadn't made anything better; I had likely make things worse.

Today I received a similar message from a woman who was calling on behalf of her husband. I called back right away, but the line was busy. Later on I got through, and an old man answered in a gruff tone.

"Hello?" he said.

"Uh, hi," I replied. "My name is Elli? And someone there called me about a medical bill? But you had the wrong number. I'm not the person you are trying to reach and I just wanted to, um..." I trailed off.

"Hello?" he said again. "Who is this?"

"...Um...I..."

"Hello?"

I could hear the loud tick-tocking of a grandfather clock in the background. I couldn't figure out what to say, or how to fix it; how to simplify the world and subtract the cell phones, the paperwork, the poor vision and shaky hands, the confusion, the illness, the sadness. I guess the thing is that I can't.

I sat there, silent, wondering what I could possibly say.

A second later, he hung up.

You've Been Warned

(Thanks, Michael.)

A Rare Occurrence

It's not every day that I cheer for an insurance company. In fact, I'm not sure I've ever done much more than pay my bill and grumble a little bit in their general direction.

But today, well. Today my car insurance company sent me an e-mail saying I could sign up to go "paperless"--so all my bills and documents will be sent via e-mail rather than paper post. This is nothing revolutionary, but in addition to this they said that if I did, they would plant a tree in a national forest damaged by wildfire. And this is totally rad. Not to mention, timely.

So, Progressive, what you're doing today is cool--the way you're using cause marketing to raise your eco-profile and in the meantime, helping to solve a real environmental challenge.

Today, you get a gold star. Just one though. Don't go getting a big head or anything. You're still an insurance company, after all.

The Public's Privates

I realize I have no right to complain. I paid to go to the theater and sit with a hundred other people to see Juno before it comes out on video, to experience it not from the comfort of my own home and the solitude of my couch but among the general public and their sniveling, popcorn crunching, bathroom breaks and throat clearing. Yes, I get it. I chose this.

But I really wish the woman sitting behind me with her miniature gasps and disapproving clucks would just shut her effing trap.

So, we're watching the movie and something sad happens, and before my brain has a chance to communicate this to my heart (the part that's needed to tell my eyes to cry, which, I might add, I LIKE to do during the sad parts) this woman is going "Ohhhh," out loud! And it distracts me so much from my own reaction that instead of feeling sad I am feeling PISSED and I've been separated entirely from my movie-watching experience.

And it wasn't just the sad parts. It was ALL the parts. The cute parts ("Awww"), the awkward parts ("Ergh!!"), the slightly inappropriate parts ("Tsk!") and the tense parts ("Oh!"). Seriously lady, shut it. I may be sitting near you, but I don't want to know you're there. This is like airplanes and elevators, okay? You do your thing and I'll do mine, and so long as "your thing" doesn't involve intruding on my thing, we'll be just fine. We'll watch this movie together, but there's really no need for us to share this experience in any immediate way. You may hate it and I may love it, but I don't ever want to have to know that. Got it?

Because this is AMERICA. And I will HAVE my individualized, single-serving, personal pan experience, even if I have to pay ten bucks to get it while crammed in with you and a hundred others, 10 sardines to a row.

p.s. I LOVED Juno. Did I mention that? Loved it. More on that later.

Si, se puede

This video will knock your socks off. If you have faith in change and hope for the future, or maybe if you want or need a little more, watch this video. Believe. Si, se puede. Yes, we can.