I told myself not to panic. I had saved a hundred bucks doing my own touch-up work. How much could a couple new area rugs, to cover the damaged carpet, cost? At worst, I’d probably break even.
And, if I managed my original goal of re-staining the bar, I figured I’d be way ahead.
I headed back downstairs to tackle that project. In just over an hour, I applied a layer of stain to every bit of wood trim on the bar. Oh, and I’d learned something from my mistakes—I laid down an old sheet as a drop cloth.
After finishing the first coat, I appraised the bar. It looked fabulous! It would need a second coat, maybe even a third. But I’d just learned the raging snowstorm had already closed my office again for the next day. Plenty of time to finish the project and then glow in my success.
Stepping back, I noticed a strip I missed. I dipped my brush into the can, which I’d placed for convenience on top of the bar. As I turned away, my right elbow hit something. Peering over my shoulder, I watched in seemingly slow motion as the entire contents of the overturned can rushed out in a thick, mahogany waterfall, spilling all over the top of the bar and down the sides.
Clearly, staining a single piece of furniture was far more complex than painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Michelangelo never once had to worry about a paint can spilling upon that ceiling.
I surveyed my destroyed masterpiece in horror. I had already removed the drop cloth, believing I was finished. A half-dozen spills had gushed their way down, exploding onto the carpet.
I added buying a third area rug to my to-do list.
The bar wasn’t such an easy fix. I blotted up the sides, hoping I could cover all the stain inconsistencies with additional coats. Next, I studied the pool of stain on top. It was already drying into a splotchy pile of goo. I knew it couldn’t be rectified with blotting or disguising it with a third or even fourth coat of stain. The only solution was to cover the bar top with tile.
A tiled top might be beyond my DIY skills, however. I hoped Jerry could handle that job. I’d pay him well for this, quite gladly, if only he’d return my calls.
Meanwhile, I had a second snow day awaiting me. Perhaps I would spend it applying a couple more coats of stain to the bar’s possibly salvageable trim. Or else I’d let my handyman finish that, too.
Plopping back on the couch, I called Jerry, who promised—on his life—to come the following week to take care of all my remaining homeowner problems.
I hung my head. I’d lived independently for years. And, through this year of new experiences, I had begun to learn I was capable of far more than I thought possible. Surely, I must possess some handy skills.
I spent the next hour shopping online for area rugs. Oh, I knew my way around the Internet, for sure. While I surfed the web, I fixed myself a tall Bloody Mary. At least I was handy as hell at fixing something.
And, I didn’t spill a single drop.
Chapter 31:
UNPLUGGED AND AMISH
While The 52/52 Project had begun to broaden my world, it simultaneously cemented me to an electronic one. As I planned and reported about events in my life, I grew even more obsessed with my three email accounts. I mainlined Facebook. My iPhone, offering instant notifications, never sat out of reach. And, still old-school enough to actually talk on the phone, I generally spent my drive time chatting, particularly on multiple daily conversations with my mother. Sure, I could ignore her calls and messages. But mothers only call again. And again. At least that’s what my two sons claimed.
A few months prior, during an attempted three-day break from my computer and cell phone, I instead found myself binging on Downton Abbey—an entire streamed season in a single weekend. I went from the electric frying pan straight into the fire. Yes, I was an electronic addict.
It was time to give unplugging from electronics my all.
So, I began one of the most personally daunting items on my 52/52 list: going unplugged for an entire week. Seven days of no phone, no radio, no television, no Internet, and no email. The only phone and email exceptions I chose to allow were communications for my day job and, if truly necessary, personal or family emergencies.
I comforted myself in the thought that I could still receive parcel and post. I prayed someone would send me a box of Little Debbie Nutty Bars, a twelve-pack of beer, and—several long letters.
How bad was my addiction? Before I unplugged, I scheduled a Facebook post to appear midway through my hiatus. Although I wouldn’t be able to read the comments for another week, I clung to the idea that this somehow kept me connected to my Internet alliances.
I had it bad. Real bad.
DAY ONE
I pulled out of the driveway and picked up my phone for my usual morning conversation with my mother. Oh. Right. This was it. My new unplugged life, for an entire week. Sigh.
By the time I arrived at my office, a half hour later, I already felt incomplete. Isolated. Amish. For the next week, I’d apparently be living the life of Ma Ingalls in Little House on the Prairie.
I busied myself with paperwork and reports. Just before noon, I checked my office email account and opened a colleague’s message. I clicked on the embedded link and on auto-pilot began perusing a delightful collection of new books.
Crap.
I’d made it through the first twelve hours, half of those while asleep, and already I’d failed the test. I wandered ten yards down the hall to remind my coworker, Lynn, that I couldn’t read personal emails. Good friend that she was, she consequently saved dozens of Internet goods for me and, on the eve of day seven, she emailed me an entire week’s worth of personal reflections and web links. Lynn may have needed an intervention, too.
Minutes later, I picked up my office phone and was greeted by the voice of Son #1.
“Hey, Mom.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Um, I thought I could call you at work.”
“Only if it’s an emergency.”
“Well, I do need to talk to you.” He paused, and I braced myself for some sort of dire and distressing news.
“My band is scheduled for a late show Friday night. Can you watch the dog overnight?”
Deep sigh, reprised.
Two hours later, I received an office email from the editor of my university faculty-staff newspaper, who was writing a story on The 52/52 Project and needed photos. Verrry iffy territory. But, this was a work-related publication, I told myself. With a deadline! So, I clicked through to Facebook, where most of my photos resided.
A glaring red flag greeted me: “14 NOTIFICATIONS!” Triple sigh.
I averted my eyes, copied several photos to my hard drive, and emailed them to the editor. I closed out of Face-book without reading a single notification. I applauded my willpower.
On the drive home, I also resisted the temptation to call my mother for our usual en route conversation. I gazed down at the car radio. I’d endured an entire day without any tunes. The absence of music was soul-crushing.
As my mind was forced to wander, I found myself thinking about Tom Laughlin of Billy Jack movie fame, who I learned had just died. I spent the drive attempting to recall, and finally successfully belting out, every line of “One Tin Soldier.” Given the meager amount of ways to temporarily occupy myself, I concluded this was thirty minutes of my life well spent.
After dinner, I sat on the couch and stared at my closed laptop and black TV screen. Unplugging was triple the challenge when one lived alone. How did hermits occupy their time? I was pretty sure most of them spent their evenings talking to themselves and staring into the abyss.
I perused the last three day’s newspapers, even the sports pages, and read three chapters of a novel. “I love to read,” I announced aloud to no one. Considering I still had my books, how bad could the week really be?
DAY TWO
I awoke to two missed calls from Son #1. (I did allow myself to check my cell phone for missed calls and messages, in light of true emergencies.) Not a single voice mail from him.
That was no surprise since neither of my sons would stoop to leaving a voice mail—even if their apartment had burned down and they were left standing on a street corner with their remaining handful of worldly possessions.
But one of my sons calling twice before 8 a.m.? Something terrible had obviously transpired. My heart raced. What would Ma Ingalls do if she were frantic with worry about one of her grown children? I figured she would make a quick stop on her trek to the water pump—or to the office—to ask Grandma Ingalls to text him.
As my mother opened her door, her eyes lit at the sight of me. She reached out and grabbed me in a bear hug. “I’ve really missed you,” she said. Understandable. After all, it had been almost thirty-six hours since our last phone call.
She promised to check in on her grandson and assured me that one of them would call me at the office if it was a true emergency. A half hour after I arrived at work, Son #1’s number popped up on my ringing office phone. I fearfully picked up the handset.
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, hi, Mom. Hey, I wanted to let you know our show is actually Saturday, not Friday. Still OK for you to take the dog?”
DAY THREE
I didn’t receive a single phone call all day from any family members. I loved them. I missed them. But I had to admit that not having to mediate their daily lives or coordinate any family matters, even for the upcoming Christmas holiday, was liberating. Still, how could they possibly be surviving without me?
And I did feel disconnected from the rest of the universe. What were all my cyber friends up to? And, what sort of horrendously delightful diatribes were Internet trolls posting in comments on Yahoo news stories? I missed those, too.
On the drive home from work, I stared at my iPhone lying on the front passenger seat. I had turned off all email and Facebook notifications. What exactly was I supposed to do at red lights?
That night, I worked on a draft of a story by pen and paper before retiring to bed hours earlier than usual. I tossed and turned, while visions of Facebook danced in my head. I even, almost, missed Twitter. Yes, I’d hit an all-time low.
DAY FOUR
Without my usual background music at work, I hummed my way through the morning. Later that day, I heard faint strands of the Wicked soundtrack streaming from a coworker’s office. Would it be cheating to ask her to crank up the volume?
No phone calls the entire day. Son #1 must have concluded we were all set for dog-sitting.
Heading home from the office, I passed a discount mattress store. The only vehicle in the parking lot was a food truck, the concession type you generally see at a festival or fair. The truck banner advertised corn dogs, lemonade, and elephant ears. And, not just the usual sugar-coated fried confections but also “Dietetic Elephant Ears!”
Dietetic elephant ears, offered by a random festival food truck in a desolate mattress store parking lot, in the middle of winter? I grinned and reached for my iPhone to take a picture of this bizarre sighting.
Damn.
OK. No iPhone photos allowed. Well, I’d at least make a note to write about this oddity later. I grabbed my phone again, to leave a recorded memo on my favorite dictation app.
Double Damn.
DAY FIVE
I needed to check the upcoming weekend’s schedule for the zoo’s annual Christmas light show. An impossible task, without a phone or Internet. I would have to take a wild stab at the hours and beg off as being blameless if the zoo was closed when my family and I arrived.
I also needed to find a new recipe for our family Christmas dinner that weekend. My normal online resources were out of the question. Apparently, I’d have to open one of the four dozen cookbooks gathering dust on my kitchen shelves.
On my way home from work, I passed by my friend Cindy’s neighborhood and decided to stop for an impromptu holiday visit. She didn’t answer when I rang the doorbell. The rules forbade me from tracking her down by calling her cell phone from mine. Seriously? Who made these damn rules anyway?
As I left and rounded the corner, I happened to pass her approaching car and flagged her down. We managed a visit, after all. Could I help it if she had music playing in the background? I caught a glimpse or two of something on her TV screen. It was the best of times, out there on the wild prairie.
DAY SIX
Son #2 arrived in town for the Christmas holiday. At least I could only assume he did, since he’d been instructed ahead that he couldn’t—and indeed he didn’t—call to say he safely made the five-hour trip from Milwaukee. I worried about his wellbeing, but I never allowed myself to pick up the phone to check on him. A terrible, inconsiderate, and rule-abiding mother I was.
After a mid-morning meeting, I returned to my office to find my friend, Murf, in the midst of leaving a note on my desk. She’d stopped to ask me to meet for drinks after work. Yes! I was in! Except, while we were at the bar, who would let out Ringo the Wonder Retriever, who’d been crossing his furry legs all day?
Murf convinced me it wasn’t cheating if she called Son #2 to see if he’d arrived home and could manage dog duty. He told her he was only an hour away and would stop home to take care of Ringo before a scheduled eye appointment.
What he couldn’t handle, however, was paying for his appointment and new glasses. Through two missed calls and a subsequent text message that appeared on my phone screen (EMERGENCY—it began), I discovered he needed a credit card number. I was forced to call him back. I told myself this was a matter of medical emergency and financial hardship. As well as a small matter of my not planning ahead.
With no access to phone calls or text messages, poor Ma Ingalls probably always planned ahead. Me? I just thanked God I had only one day left of this shit.
DAY SEVEN
My right ear had throbbed for three days. In a curious turn of events, as I’d gone unplugged, my ear canal had plugged right up. I’d stuck it out, blaming it on a temporary allergic reaction and refusing to call the doctor. By day seven, as the pain increased, I figured I’d already used up my medical emergency excuse the day before with Son #2.
I glanced at Ringo.
“Quick, Lassie,” I shouted at him. “Run and fetch the doctor!” Ringo blinked twice at me, not budging from his usual reclining position on the couch.
I struggled through my last disconnected day in an even bigger fog, since I could only hear out of one ear. I drove home from work, resisting all temptation from electronic evil by burying my iPhone at the bottom of my purse.
Just knowing I’d be reconnected at midnight made the evening bearable.
I fell asleep, dreaming of my four BFFs: Verizon, Google, Pandora, and Facebook.
DAY EIGHT
I woke the next morning. It was Christmas Eve day! Not only a day off work, but the day I could finally rejoin the great world around me!
My first move was to telephone my doctor, who agreed to call in an antibiotic with no office visit necessary. My next call was to my mother. If there was anyone happier than me to see this week conclude, it was her. She said she’d been waiting for my call since dawn.
Next, I raced to my laptop. I clicked on the Facebook icon. I was greeted by a yellow warning on my monitor: No Internet connection.
Clearly, this was some kind of momentary cruel joke. I tried again. And again. After several repeated attempts, I turned on the TV. No cable either.
I continued to stare at my computer monitor, clicking “Internet Settings” over and over and over. The flickering snow on the TV seemed to mock me. Oh, the brutality of life: to be finally granted permission to use technology—only to have that access technologically denied.
Clearly, I was on Santa’s Naughty List.
After checking with my neighbors, who said they were experiencing a similar problem, I called my cable and Internet company. Three times. Each time, they reassured me it was a short-term problem. Short-term was a relative and disturbing description. I called a fourth time and was told, nonchalantly, to just sit tight. Basta
rds.
Hours passed.
Finally, twelve hours after what should have been the end of my weeklong ordeal, my electronic nightmare came to an end. When the word “connected” popped on my computer screen, I embraced my laptop. I emailed both my sons to alert them of my full freedom, checked my other email messages, and then clicked over to Facebook.
As I scrolled through a week’s worth of postings, I cranked some Christmas tunes on Pandora and slipped a disc into my DVD player. Oh, the Grinch! What would Christmas be without the ability to watch one of my favorite holiday movies?
I related more than ever to that ornery old recluse.
I could only imagine how much happier he and Ma Ingalls might have been, if only they’d been Facebook friends.
Chapter 32:
FROZEN
After my nude beach ordeal, I promised I would never again complain about cramming my full-sized, middle-aged parts into a bathing suit. Except I never considered I’d soon be donning one on New Year’s Day—in frozen Ohio—while plunging into the icy waters of the Maumee River.
As I shivered in a swimsuit on the snow-covered riverbank, it’s possible I complained once or twice. Or maybe fifty-two times.
I’d lived nearly my whole life in northwest Ohio and spent the last twenty-five years in Waterville, only two miles from the setting of what’s believed to be the country’s oldest annual Polar Plunge. I’d never wandered over to even watch because, baby, it’s cold out there! And those people who jumped into a frozen river in January? They were certifiably ca-ray-zee.
But, considering how far up the insanity meter my life had spiked over the past months, crazy seemed very murky territory. So, at the high point of the day’s heat index, just before noon, I plodded down to the river for a mid-winter dip.
Finding My Badass Self Page 14
