TheBanyanTree: Another Day in Paradise

[Monique]

Don't be getting your hopes up here. This isn't a tale of schizophrenia gone
awry, of psychotic breaks and hallucinations. (Though he did, just the other
day, tell me he was in a parking lot at the grocery store and heard his name
called, over and over again. Of course, there was no one there.)

He did, late last night, let me know that he was having a borderline event.
That can mean anything from cutting to ... something else, which we won't go
into right now, but it's relatively benign.

So it's none of that. It's about another day in paradise. I am not being
facetious. Nor am I being cynical. No, I'm just content and happy. Why
shouldn't I be? 

It's raining outside today. It's currently 44 degrees here, which is warmer
than some places, colder than others. It's wet, which is wetter than some
places, though I'd hesitate to say it's drier than some, though it very well
may be. The dog is asleep in her chair, and she's snoring. She snores
loudly. I think she has a sinus problem, but since it doesn't seem to bother
her we'll just let it slide.

Sometimes it's best to just let things slide. Not all the way of course, and
not to the point of no return, but just a bit perhaps. Enough to take a deep
breath and say, "Hey, where am I?" 

Well, here is where I am. Right here. And it's a good place to be. 

Did I mention that my living room is, at the moment, cluttered with client
files? That my entertainment unit has been converted into bins for client
files? That my dining room table is awash with papers and files and odds and
ends?

I probably didn't mention it because, in the overall scheme of things, it
doesn't matter.

My cleaning people didn't come in last week. They're supposed to how up
every other week, but they're having financial difficulties and things of
that nature. One week we were tentatively scheduled for the end of the week
and . . . nothing. The following week . . . nothing. The next week . . .
they showed up. Last week should have been time again. Nothing. I'm not
really up to the challenge of chasing them down and coercing them into
coming to clean. Of course, I feel bad for them. Four small children. The
owner of the company is a nurse in order to pay the bills. Her husband has
only the company to worry about, but doesn't always get the concept that
hiring subcontractors when he'd rather not do the work himself is just an
added expense they don't need. Anyway. So I give them a break. But soon I'll
have to call on another client, also a cleaning company, to see if she can
take over. People might think it frivolous to have cleaners come in -- after
all, I can do it myself, right? I could justify it by saying that I also
have them clean Stew's place so that I know it's being kept up somewhat --
schizophrenics and such don't always immerse themselves in the daily
minutiae of things such as clean houses. But I won't attempt to justify it.
Cleaning is something I can use help with, so why not?

I'm a big believer in outsourcing. I outsource my taxes to a tax preparer. I
outsource my payroll whenever I can to Paychex. I outsource my cleaning too.
Doesn't mean I don't do it myself. I also do some tax work, some payroll. 

Back to paradise. So the place is a bit messy. In the overall scheme of
things, does it really matter?

Stew went with me yesterday to run some errands, and I mentioned that my
purse needed to be replaced. It had become stained a few days before, and I
just absolutely hate that. A big ink splotch or something on the side of it.
When it had first happened I'd wanted to run out and get one right away, but
it wasn't a good time for such frivolity. So I said, "Hey, while we're out,
let's get me a new purse." He agreed, being an agreeable sort, and we headed
to Penney's. 

I do not shop often because I don't particularly enjoy it, except for the
times when I do. Those times are far outnumbered by the times I don't
though. But yesterday I was in the mood, no doubt because things are
starting to look not so bad financially around here. The first stop was the
prom dress section. It wasn't so much a stop as it was a . . . well, they
were RIGHT THERE. And I never got to go to my prom. Or any prom. I had
formal dinners in the military, but I never got to go to a prom.

Granted, I may be a bit old for that now, but all the same, there were prom
dresses. I asked Stew which he liked -- I was going for the bright pink
frothy number with the extra froth, but he didn't think that was really me.
Sigh. I looked at a nice red one without as much froth, but he didn't think
that was me either. I looked at the black formal dresses, but he didn't
think that was me either. I am apparently not the prom type.

So we moved on to the handbag section. This I find enormously overwhelming.
They come in all shapes, all sizes, all materials . . . but not the
particular size, shape, and material that I want. Perhaps one of the three,
or even two, but not all three in one. Stew, being ever helpful, was
pointing out what was wrong with the ones I looked at. Me, being ever
contrary, picked out the most hideous ones for his approval. I had to smack
him a couple of times. 

Another shopper came over to us to ask if the purse she was holding was blue
or black. After much discussion and comparison with the one I was holding we
all decided it was blue. She left discouraged, wanting a black one which did
not, of course, come in that style.

Men think this is easy, being a woman. It most certainly is not. 

I thought the bright pink flowered purse was a good idea, but that was met
with violent opposition. I told him that if he were a boyfriend instead of
an ex-husband he'd just agree with me and tell me it was wonderful. He said
that taste was not defined by relationship. Go figger. We wandered the
entire section, looking and tossing aside. Either it was a wrong color, a
disturbing fabric, had a strap that was too short (I must be able to fling
it over my shoulder without the purse hitting my elbow), not big enough, or
too big. 

I considered using my briefcase for everything a purse would traditionally
hold. Very professional to start pulling files out of a briefcase at a
client's and have a smattering of miscellaneous items, lipstick, breath
mints, keys, powder, come clattering out also, as they get caught up in the
file folders. So I disregarded that notion.

Stew pointed out a few totally inappropriate items, such as the large
shopping bags that are stocked for shopper's convenience. I had to smack him
a few more times, but it didn't seem to faze him. Other shoppers stared. I
am accustomed to being sedate when I shop, nor quiet.

I somehow managed, in this flurry of inactivity, to pick out something
reasonably appropriate. Not flashy, not too small, not too big, a basic
black (in comparison to the former, a macramé type bag thing). (Of course,
now that it's home with me, I fear it may be a tad too small, but there it
is.) We settled on it. We decided. Then I saw the wallets. Red wallets. I
wanted one. 

Stew said they were ugly. "No!" I said, "They're PRETTY!" The lime green
ones I was not so impressed with. 

I left the wallet section empty handed, giving in to my conscience. On the
way out of the handbag department we passed more purses . . . one of them
red. "Now this," Stew said, "is nice." I picked it up. I looked at it. I was
wearing a burgundy blazer at the time, and the red seemed rather obnoxious
next to it, so I discarded it. "It'll clash with half my clothes!" 

We managed to get out of the store with one black purse, though I did stop
at the prom dress section again. Just to look, of course . . . though Stew
says I won't be going to a prom anytime soon.

It's another day in paradise. And I'm going to finish my bagel now. 

Monique