The Messenger

Today I received an email that changed the game. A mortgage asset company I work for instructed me to offer a (now foreclosed) home owner $2000 to vacate their home by next month. I’ve been doing drive-bys of this home for months taking dated photos and uploading them to their website. My comments always include things like “lots of activity, a dog, small children, barbeque pit, above ground pool, mature gardens” etc. Clearly, it is well lived-in and they have no intention of vacating anytime soon, and  for $2000, I fully expect them to tell me to go pound sand!  Unfortunately, when I list homes for banks, sometimes I am also the person on the ground representing them for this part as well. Believe me, there's nothing I like less, especially since the only reason I'm not in their shoes is because I've made just enough money selling their previous homes to keep me in mine.

Today my  little red car that normally passes their house inconspiculously taking photos will turn into their yard. I dread what I have to do, and have no way of knowing their story or everthing they’ve been through until I meet them. Some people have no idea what is about to happen, and some are in denial. Many are justifiably angry, and most cry.

I spend the next few hours nervously rehearsing various ways of approaching the topic (if they’re even home when I arrive) and find nothing is appropriate for such an introduction, and will just have to wing it. I find my wavering allegiance between the bank and the occupant confusing and upsetting.  When I think back to the 40-hour real estate class for licensing, no one told us about this part.

Knock-Knock. “Hello, my name is Connie. Please don’t hate me...”

Middle Aged

I was amused recently listening to NPR in the car, that the new "middle aged" begins at 55, and "elderly" begins at 70. 

About a year ago I felt some discomfort in my lower abdominal, later to be decided to be my ovaries.  After many people had a say (and hand) in what was going on, I received a few remedies to "encourage" the eggs to jump off the ovaries and to soften the outer shell making it easier for them to detach.  This went on for so long that people would often ask me how I was feeling, and those braver who were following this unfurling saga would ask specifically about my ovaries. 

I suffered months and months of discomfort, and finally after enduring a variety of doctors, tests, and referrals, the word "hormones" crept into the picture.  Hmm.  That changes everything.  Not really, but it was then that I realized I was no longer 26 with an egg or two going through a rough patch, but rather that I'm 47 and my hormones are stepping out of bounds, my eggs are becoming decrepit, and they have forgotten to do what they've done so perfectly for so many years. 

In hindsight, for me middle aged began when "ovary" became an everyday word.

Middle ages Middle-aged.  Aren't you glad I didn't post an ovary?...because I thought about it.

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The ideas gained by men before they are twenty-five are practically the only ideas they shall have in their lives.  ~William James

Clarity through Alcohol

Every year I make a resolution to drink more.  While others generally aim to reduce consumption, I'm scheming ways to add more.  Before working in a restaurant I would go months without a drink, and still do when I’m home.  Restaurant life makes reaching my goal easier to achieve as the daily rhythms of the shift-drink, meeting people after work, and being out after dark in general lends itself to a cocktail or two.

The benefits of a little beverage are under rated, making all the mental rhetoric subside, and allowing me to feel whatever I want.  The silent swaddling of the Catholic upbringing and strict work ethic has very long roots, only reachable, apparently, by the second martini. Sometime during that second drink the roots loosen their grip. It’s not that I need alcohol to do or be or act any differently, but it sure helps me think differently. It's quite liberating, and it's cheaper and more available than therapy.

All Type A personalities may benefit from a  little nip to break free from the endless rules, restrictions, and head conversations we put upon ourselves.  There’s no one making me do, think, or say anything at this point in my life.  However, that’s the beauty and the price of upbringings.  We’ve all got ‘em. 

Bottoms up.

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          If merely 'feeling good' could decide, drunkenness would be the supremely valid human experience
          ~William James