Reservations About a Table For One

One thing I absolutely loathe is eating alone in a restaurant.  I don’t know why, but it’s an extremely uneasy experience for me and I rarely do it.  I’d zipline across a raging river before I’d eat an enchilada without a dinner date.  And, seriously, I’ve sailed across a gorge in Puerto Vallarta hanging only by a thin cable, but, until this week, I can’t remember the last time I went to a restaurant by myself.

I wouldn’t call my dread of solo dining a phobia.  That’s too strong of a word.  Eating alone in a restaurant does not reduce me to tears, cause me to perspire, or induce hyperventilation, but it is an uncomfortable scenario in my world.  And it’s not even an inability to be by myself.  Sometimes I rather relish spending time alone.  It’s just being alone in a restaurant that I severely dislike.

So one day this week, with great hesitation, I decided to go to breakfast by myself.  I had a hearing and finished up a little early, I was hungry, and I needed some quiet time to review a document for work.  While it took some convincing for me to go to a restaurant alone, I was up for the challenge.

I parked my car, grabbed my work bag, and confidently headed into one of my favorite haunts, La Duni.  This was going to be fine.  In no time flat, I would have a latte the size of a small swimming pool in front of me and I would soon forget that I didn’t have a companion for breakfast.  The hostess greeted me at the door and promptly deflated me.  She said, “Are you dining alone?”  Shudder.  I sensed a judgmental tone in her voice, I just know it!

Not to be deterred, I said, “Yes, it’s just me.”  Who did she think she was judging me for breaking fast by myself?  It’s not like I need someone there to spoon feed me or something.  She grabbed a menu and led me over to a small table.  I sat down and looked around to make sure there wasn’t a spotlight on this poor woman sitting ALL ALONE.  So far, so good.  Then the waitress came up and her first words were, “Oh, are you waiting for someone?”  Shudder.  Why is La Duni employing such a bunch of hypercritical, judgmental women? 

When I relate these stories to my husband, he’s dumbfounded that it’s such a big issue for me to eat by myself in a restaurant.  Sometimes when I am out-of-town or have my own plans, my husband has no qualms about going to a nice dinner by himself.  He not only goes and has a full-blown meal all alone, but he claims he kind of enjoys it.  When I told him about my “big adventure” on Thursday, he said he was proud of me.  I know he’s proud of me for a lot of things, but eating alone should not be one of them.  I even had a friend tell me, “Bravo!”  These comments have made it crystal clear to me that I just need to get over it.

So I’ve made the decision in 2011 I will conquer this fear.  Several friends of mine have suggested that I start simple and go to a restaurant and eat at the bar by myself.  To me that’s cheating, because I have absolutely no trouble striking up a conversation with strangers.  In my opinion, it’s also cheating to take along a book or my cell phone. If I am going to conquer this fear, I need to face it head on.  No dipping my toe into the shallow end; I need to do a swan dive into a five-star meal sans accompaniment.

So, while normally seeking out-of-the-ordinary adventure, in 2011 one of my big adventures will be to eat a fancy dinner alone.  This may seem minor to you, but it’s going to be a big challenge for me.  And, if there’s anyone out there trying to conquer this same fear, please feel free to join me for dinner.  We can get side-by-side tables for one.  Bon Appetit!

Stop and Smell the Roses!

My search for my nothing box hit a bit of a wall this week.  It's been the kind of week when you think the toilet is going to overflow, and, at the very last second just as you're about to race for the plunger, you hear a glorious "woosh" and the water level goes back to normal.  Yep, this week instead of finding peace and tranquility, I've just been running around looking for a plunger.  Then something happened a few days ago that literally made me slow down, take a breath, and smile. 

I was at work frantically reviewing a VERY LONG document to prepare for a phone conference with a client when my receptionist buzzed me to say that one of my other clients had shown up unannounced to drop something off.  It was just a few minutes until my call.  Seriously, she's stopping by now?  Unannounced? The nerve!  I stood up and was this close to calling up to the front to have them tell her just to leave it and I would call her later, but something stopped me.  I don't know why, but I trudged up to the lobby to see what she needed to give me.  What did I find?  I found my client and her 5 beautiful children waiting eagerly and smiling ear-to-ear as they each gave me a present to tell me how much they appreciated me.  They showered me with hugs, a smiley face balloon, flowers, a gift certificate for a massage, and a sweet card signed by each of them (including the 3-year-old).  My heart soared!

As they left and I headed back to my office with my arms full of their good cheer, I couldn't have felt lower and happier all at the same time.  I felt like a complete and total schmuck.  It was a horrible realization that I almost missed out on happiness, because I was too caught up in the moment.  It was a clear sign that I just needed to breathe.  Stop and smell the roses.  The few minutes it took me to walk up to our lobby and receive all of their love has propelled me through the rest of my week.  What if I hadn't gone up there? 

Here's my vow:  I'm going to stop looking for the plunger and start stopping to smell the roses more often.  The little spring in your step that you get from stopping to appreciate something or receive an unexpected guest can actually give you much-needed energy to hop right over the muck without worrying about it getting on your shoes.

Happy Valentine's Day!

It's funny how worlds collide.  Just last week a group of friends and I were giving another friend suggestions for what to get his daughters for Valentine's Day.  Seems our friend was in a quandary as to what to give them because he was trying to avoid buying them candy.  One of his girls had a cavity recently and he didn't want to encourage her sweet tooth.   I responded and told him he should get them flowers, because I had never forgotten when my dad sent me flowers one year for Valentine's Day.  I was probably only 7 or 8 years old and he sent my mom, my sister, and me each a bouquet.  It was official - he was the coolest dad ever.

On the bouquet my dad sent me there was a pendant that had an opening for a flower.  You could put a little water in it and wear a rosebud or some other delicate flower.  I still have it.  I don't wear it, but it hangs on the hooks with my other necklaces.  Over the years, it's gotten a bit dingy and some of the silver plate has peeled off, but I will never get rid of it.

Flash forward thirty years.  My dad brought me flowers for Valentine's Day today.  He's normally quite resistant to these holidays, because he thinks they're all manufactured by Hallmark.  I honestly think he's behind the conspiracy that stopped my mother from giving me Easter baskets when I hit 20.  That being said, something opened up in his heart today and he bought treats for all the ladies in his life (my mom, my sister, my aunt, my niece, and me).

So, here's to the dads who pretend they don't love all these holidays.  Just remember, you may not like all the manufactured cheer, but your kids will remember it forever.  I love you, Daddy.

And to my mom: Please do not interpret this post as a dig against the very sweet rose bush you got me this year.  I love it and it's prominently displayed in the center of my kitchen table.  It's just more surprising when dads do these things.  You're my mom, so I probably take it for granted that you're going to get me a Valentine.  Now if we could just get back to those Easter baskets... :)

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!  I hope you have a song in your heart on this day specially filled with love.

You a Little Cockeyed

Sometimes people have a way in getting in your head with the smallest little comment.  Recently I was getting a mani-pedi and my very sweet manicurist abruptly declared, “Your eyebrow crooked.  Right one higher than left one.”  There I was relaxing in the spa chair and suddenly I was told I had been wandering around town with a funky-looking right eyebrow.  Oh, the horror!  Her remark immediately evoked images in my mind of a silent movie villain cocking one eyebrow very high to signal the dastardly deeds he was planning. 

As I sat there waiting for my toes to dry, I couldn’t help but obsess and feel self-conscious about this hairy caterpillar that had taken over the right part of my forehead.  How could this have escaped my attention?  I came straight home and studied my eyebrows in the bathroom mirror for quite awhile trying to judge whether one side of my face was in fact higher than the other.  My poor husband even got dragged into my crisis of vanity.  I dared to ask him the loaded question of whether he saw anything wrong with my face.  Smart man that he is, he said no and quickly changed the subject.  Eventually, although not without considerable thought, I concluded that my right brow was even with my left and let the whole issue drop.  Maybe my nail lady was just looking at me from a weird angle.

At any rate, I didn’t really think about it again until I went back to the salon a few weeks later with a friend of mine.  As we relaxed in the chairs chatting with one another, the woman tending to my friend’s feet suddenly announced, “You need callous treatment.  Just $5 more.”  That’s when it occurred to me – we were living the Anjelah Johnson comedy routine. You know, the one that reduces all women I know to tears of laughter thinking about being slapped with backhanded compliments from the manicurist in order for the salon to make a little more money (if you're not one of the 21 million people who has seen the video, check it out!).  My friend and I exchanged a knowing glance and a quiet giggle and she paid $5 more to get the apparently much-needed foot sanding.

My theory is that the pedicure palace where I go must be feeling the pain of fierce competition from all the other nail places in town.  Seriously, there is one on almost every corner around here and I’m sure you’ve got to be cutthroat to survive.  I’ve been going to the same person for 8 years and until the “brow incident,” she had never commented on my brows or any other flaws that needed repair.  I’d never been offered additional pedicure treatments or waxing.  I simply went in, sat down, relaxed, talked about  life and our families, and left with lovely toes.  That was that. 

Now each time I go in, I wonder what’s going to be wrong with me this time. Thankfully, I’ve chalked it up to a business tactic and tried to not let it get the best of my vanity.  In fact, everyone I know is vain to some extent or else we wouldn’t be spending so much time in these places getting spackled, sanded, and painted.  If the manicurists of this world keep it up, I predict that our fragile egos will keep them in business for years to come.

Support Animal Rescue

One thing that is extremely important to me is animal rescue.  I’m a big advocate of adopting shelter animals and supporting local rescue organizations.  There are millions of animals just waiting out there to be loved and to make someone feel special.  My adopted furry boys have brought more joy to my life than I could ever imagine.  They are wonderful companions and I think that they are snugglier and sweeter than ever, because they recognize that they were given a second chance at life. 

So it was with a heavy heart yesterday that I read about the needless and cruel slaughter of sled dogs in Canada.  The fact that this heinous act happened in the first place is absolutely deplorable, but the fact that it came to light because someone filed for benefits due to post-traumatic stress syndrome is even more sickening.  How could this person who filed for the benefits have lived with himself knowing that he tortured these poor animals for no reason other than supposedly economics?  And then he had the gall to seek government financial assistance to ease his guilt?  It is simply unimaginable.  http://news.blogs.cnn.com/2011/02/01/after-mass-dog-slaughter-stressed-man-files-wokers-comp/

I am sick at my stomach thinking about these poor animals and the cruel and senseless crimes that were committed against them.  It is my sincere hope that the public outcry will result in criminal charges against the monsters who killed these beautiful dogs.   I don't know anything about Canadian animal rights laws, but, in the U.S., I think the laws are entirely too lax against people who torture animals and run puppy mills.  I mean, Michael Vick paid a very small price for torturimg pitbulls and now he's back making millions in the NFL and getting endorsements.  What kind of message does that send to people committing crimes against helpless animals?  Maybe the publicity surrounding this news story will start a renewed dialogue about the importance of animal welfare regulations.  If there is one positive thing that can result from this awful crime, then it is public awareness.

We hear a lot of bad news reported about a variety of topics, but we rarely hear all the good news about things going on in the world.  As I write about this topic that is so close to my heart, I want to take this opportunity to thank my beautiful cousin for all of the work she does at the local animal shelter where she lives in Italy.  I applaud her for her unyielding volunteer work to help find their wonderful animals a forever home.  It makes my heart soar each time I see her Facebook posts about a dog being adopted and leaving the shelter with their new family.  Those adoptive families have no idea how lucky they are and the joy they’re about to experience by opening their home to a homeless animal.  Kudos to you, sweet Cathy.  Thank you for all you do.



Warning: Do Not Try This At Home

News coverage during bad weather is absurdly fascinating.  It doesn’t matter whether it’s a hurricane, tornado, ice storm, or a nuclear heat wave and the “officials” are warning people to take cover and stay indoors, the media outlets don’t hesitate to send their hard-hitting reporters out in the field to give a play-by-play.  Do the media have special insurance to cover when their reporters get frostbite or blow away during a hurricane?  Are these poor people the ones the station doesn’t want to fire but secretly hopes that they’ll quit if they torture them enough?

Take this morning as an example.  We’re iced in.  All of the schools are closed and even the airport is shut down. Everyone is being told to stay in, stay warm, and don’t get out on the roads.  Yet I woke up and turned on the TV to see various reporters stationed at the most dangerous interchanges in the city.  These “dedicated” journalists were showing just how slippery and treacherous the roads were by skidding across the sidewalks in their snow boots and they even had a guy driving a car with what one station likes to call “the jam cam” attached to the front grill.  That was actually the most entertaining part of the report.

The “jam cam” driver appeared to be on a suicide mission.  He was driving about 50 miles per hour on a sheet of ice.  He was driving so fast that the in-studio traffic lady even suggested he slow down.  But there was no stopping him.  Each time they flashed back to Mr. Jam Cam, it seemed like he was moving even faster.  At one point, it looked like he was about to drive straight into the middle of an accident that already had the highway shut down.  Who knows, maybe he was just caught in a perpetual slide and his brakes were no use.

Why do we love watching potential disasters in the making?  I for one find it completely laughable when the weatherman is standing out in the surf talking about the dangerous riptides.  I love it when you see a reporter tethered to a palm tree during a hurricane telling us it’s raining and windy.  I’m not laughing at their potential demise.  I’m laughing at their job.  I wait anxiously for the day when one of those rain-soaked or snow covered reporters finally has enough and tells his bosses on air right then and there that they can take this job and shove it.

And, even though all of our jobs present their own challenges and obstacles, as I sit at home today in my pjs, it makes me appreciate my job a little more when I see these frozen, wet, and windblown schmoes reporting the obvious and looking completely miserable while they do it.