What Would Oprah Do (12 page)

It felt like a new low. I thought I was being proactive, applying for a loan before I was in dire need. Even with a little money in the bank, my own credit union wouldn’t take a chance on me. As I sat in my car, I realized that I could scale back on transportation cost. I could trade in my BMW for a Honda, at least get my monthly payment down. If it came down to it, I would.

In the meantime, my car symbolized my own confidence in myself. I had worked my ass off to have a nice car
that I enjoyed sitting in. With all the time I spent in Atlanta traffic, I had earned and deserved to have a car that I enjoyed, never mind the top of the line safety features that it probably has. Even though it’s a depreciating asset, I had viewed it as what it was, the place where I spent more time awake than in my own home. I was not defeated, so there was no reason to downgrade yet.

Dear Oprah,

You know one of the traits you and I have in common? I hate waste. I mean hate it. It makes me cringe. That’s me with the skinny spatula, making sure I get the last sandwich’s worth out of the peanut butter jar. Also me
- trying to make sure the last paper towel on the roll, the one that has a little adhesive on it, gets used for something like a spill on the floor. You can’t wipe glass down with those since it will smear.

It makes me sick to see something thrown away that could have been used or donated, anything with some life left in it. This deeply instilled belief of the importance and responsibility of fully utilizing what we have is also a source of shame for me now. If you look at my life right now, I can’t find any gift that I have, any special talent or ability. And I know it’s there, because I’m here and God doesn’t waste.

Regards,

Cate

P.S. When you had the guy from The Marriage Ref on your show, I know you were about to die when they showed the clip of the guy who wouldn’t use the last of anything. I was right there with you.

While I had been discovering that I wasn’t credit worthy, Christian had sent me a text asking if I could meet for sushi and sake. As much as I wanted to duck my head into the sand and pretend that my financial situation wasn’t dim, I couldn’t keep ignoring it. I did the smart thing and invited him over to my place. He accepted. I smiled to myself, my new “boyfriend” was going to see me in my own habitat.

He got there right as I was pulling into the parking lot. “So this is where you hang your pretty hats!”
He said as he walked into my condo, giving me a nod of approval. “This is so you,” he said, “classic but with a certain flare. And the plants look good in here.”

I noticed him moving them around and realized the difference between direct and indirect light.
Christian made me feel good about myself, in a way that I hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Glad you like
it; especially since all that I’ve put into this place has made me unworthy for a business loan.” His face reflected concern that I didn’t want to deal with. “It’s fine, really. I’m just so glad you’re here. Want red or white?” I asked, holding up two bottles of wine.

“Red’s good.”
He answered. I poured two glasses and steered him to my smoking area, the balcony. “So I want to hear all about the hats.”

“It’s going great!” I answered, wondering if I could say it enough to make it true. “That’s not true. I don’t
know what the hell I’m doing. The good news is that someone’s interested in buying them; the bad news is that I still have to figure out how to design the jewelry. I haven’t even started reading the ‘how-to’ book yet…which isn’t like me. Back when I had a real job, I never would have procrastinated like this. Now that I don’t know what to do, and I don’t trust my instincts, I go between completely frozen and whirling dervish mode.”

“Why?”

“Um, why?
I don’t know why. If I knew why, maybe I could fix it.”

“Then aren’t you trying to figure out why?”
Christian may have missed his calling as a therapist.

“Well, no. I figured that things would fall into place, and they’re not. So now I’m wondering if I’m not doing the right things because
this
isn’t the right thing. Jill, my best friend, loves her job. She may complain about it, but she loves it. Even when she’s complaining about it, you can tell she’s happy with what she’s doing, which is hard to pull off unless you really like what you do. My sister Kay is a teacher, which is what she has always wanted to do. When we were little, Kay made me play “school” all the time so she could be the teacher. If you get her talking about the new electronic boards, and her affinity for chalk…It’s unmistakable that she feels so connected to what she’s doing that she’s nostalgic about how it was when she started. And don’t pretend that you don’t love your job. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t go back to school to become an expert. It feels like everyone around me knows their place in the world, except for me. Frankly I’m too old to not know.”

“I think you’re making this bigger than it is. Sounds to me like you’re just overwhelmed, so why don’t you break it down and do one thing at a time?”

God, I’ve missed man logic.

We finished a bottle of wine, and by the time we were done, I felt like everything was going to be alright. Christian offered to help me figure out the beading. I explained that I would feel like I couldn’t call it my own if I had help. He reasoned that it was like helping me hook up a new stereo system. I decided to take him up on it, promising to pay him if and when I became a success. He humored me by saying that if I was a huge success I could pick up our future sushi tabs.

Feeling relief that I wouldn’t be struggling through the book on my own, which had begun to seem as complex as a manual for a car engine in my mind, I decided to tell him about his new status as my “boyfriend”.

“So enough about me, how are things going with the gayness?”

Christian almost spewed wine. “What?”

“Oh, I was wondering if you’re still gay. I saw James last week, the piece of shit ex
fiancé. Can we skip a long story, and leave it where he saw the picture of us at Niko’s and I told him you’re my boyfriend?” Christian laughed while he nodded consent.

“I panicked, and then I saw the picture of me with you, a hot guy.”
More than a little grateful that he thought it was funny, I gave him the shortest version possible, but owned up to my salon visit. “I didn’t mean to use you.” I said. “I had a weak moment.”

“Use me! If I’m the hot guy, I’m flattered to be of service.”
We drank more wine, and I could almost forget that he is indeed gay. Luckily he left before I got drunk, saying he needed to get some sleep. Two more glasses of wine and I would have wanted to kiss him.

I’ve let my mail pile up again, basically because I’ve figured out that there is no good news coming to my mailbox. It is filled with catalogues for things I want but can’t afford, and worse, bill
s I don’t want and can’t afford.

Knowing that watching it accumulate on the counter wasn’t making it any better, I went through it. COBRA health insurance bill, car insurance bill, car payment bill, bills, bills, and more bills accompany my monthly bank statement. The only thing I wasn’t expectantly dreading is the letter from my mom. It’s about the weather, the outfit she got for sixty percent off, health updates on random people. There’s also an article she cut out from Guideposts.

This is how my mother parents me. It works well for us and we get to skip long drawn out mother-daughter talks. Like the time in college when I looked up herpes, after a friend had a scare after a one night stand. My mom was a nurse, and there were always volumes of medical encyclopedias at our house. I mistakenly left a bookmark on the herpes page. She never mentioned it, but over the next few months she sent me safe-sex brochures and information on herpes medications.

Apparently Kay has told Mom about my dilemma, even though I would prefer that neither of my parents know that I’m a screw up. She has told me so many stories about her friends who have children moving back home after they lose their jobs or get divorced. Each time she shakes her head, and I can imagine how grateful she is that although Kay and I are still single, we aren’t running back to their house in search of relief from the rest of life. Well, not yet anyway.

The Sister Schubert article in Guideposts read:

My future should have been clear to me from the start.

Then my marriage ended. At 40, I found myself a single mom of two girls, and I worried my income from working at Daddy’s store wasn’t enough to support them. I felt so alone.

“God, I can’t do this on my own,” I prayed. “I’m in your hands now.”

The answer came back: Trust me, Sister. There’s one thing you love doing more than anything else. Do that. I knew he meant Gommey’s rolls. Could I really make a living out of them?

I know my mom sent this to be helpful, but instead of providing me any reassurance about what I’m doing, it makes me want to go to Vivian’s. Perhaps my true calling is to be an emotional escape artist. Who would pay to watch me proverbially bury me head in the sand?

Even though I’m not supposed to go until tomorrow, I call Vivian to see if I can come over, not making any excuses for a reason. And she says, “Of course you can.”

Whenever I ask her any mundane thing, ‘can I have a cup of coffee, a recipe, can I borrow your lighter’, Vivian always answers with ‘of course you can’. Every time she says it
, the words wrap around me like a blanket. I wished this is how my prayers worked. I would ask God, ‘Can I be a happy, successful hat designer?’, and He would send the message right back, ‘Of course you can.’

When I walk in the door, I breathe in the smell of coffee and wish I lived with Vivian. Perhaps it’s be
cause I have switched from the good coffee which was ten dollars a pound, to something that comes in a big plastic bin, two pounds for five dollars.

“Perfect timing,” Vivian says, as she pours two cups, “It’s time for a smoke break.”

As I step out onto her back deck the feel of cool morning air mixed with sunshine hits my face, something that never happens on my balcony. Vivian’s engraved silver lighter is on the table. When I have money, I want to get one of my own.

I stare into the garden, amazed at how there is always something growing, something about to sprout, something at the end of its harvest yield. Vivian told me that spring is her favorite time of the year for the garden, but I can’t imagine it getting any better than this. “Where’s Buddy?” I ask, missing the feel of his wet nose on my elbow that usually accompanies every smoke break.

“Buddy has earned himself a bath, chased a squirrel straight through the mud. He’s too big for me to do it myself, so he’s got a day at the groomers.”

“I could have bathed him.”

“No, honey.
That is a job worth paying an expert, or at least someone with a proper dog tub. It’s not worth the mess.” Vivian takes a sip of her coffee and a drag of her cigarette. She too is staring into the garden as she says, “You know, I thought of you this morning when I was dropping him off. Buddy’s been going there since he was a puppy. It’s a small place. Two ladies own it, nice as they can be. You can tell they really love the dogs, that it’s not just a business to them, it’s personal. They’re doing something that they care about. I’d never given it any thought before, but today I thought of you.” Vivian gives me a small wink, and I notice how her eyes, corn flower blue, are so vibrant that her skin never looks washed out against her white hair.

“You get one life.
” She continued. “I used to be disappointed that Betty didn’t want to take over here when I retire, but this isn’t her dream. To tell you the truth, I don’t think being a florist is either. People say life is short, and sometimes it feels that way. One thing I know for sure, sometimes it’s long too.”

When we finished our coffee I offered to help Vivian in the garden. “There’s nothing that has to be done today.”
She answered. “I’ve cut back a little bit. They say eighty’s the new seventy, but I don’t have the energy I used to. Since you’re here though, why don’t I take you through the greenhouse?”

I followed Vivian through the back garden, excited to see something new. “I feel bad, monopolizing your time when I’m not helping.”
Besides that, I enjoyed losing myself in the rhythm of planting and watering.

“You’re not monopolizing my time. You know I used to hear my friends bragging about their grandchildren and wish that I had them, but Betty never wanted kids. Then I’d hear people complaining that their grandkids didn’t want to spend time with them, talking about how they only saw them at holidays or when they felt guilty about not visiting. My point is, you coming over here just because you want to spend time with me
is more than a compliment. It makes me feel special.”

As soon as she said it, I knew that the fact that I made Vivian feel special might be one of the greatest compliments of my life.

When we got to the greenhouse door, I was stunned by how big it was. With all of the dogwood trees in the back of the yard, you couldn’t see half of it from Vivian’s deck. It was bigger than my condo. As Vivian opened the door, I could feel my hair starting to frizz from the humidity. It was like walking into some exotic jungle, right in the middle of Atlanta. The first thing that caught my eye was a huge round table covered with potted orchids. They were so pretty and so delicate, I felt like a lumberjack beside them.

“You don’t have to grow orchids in pots. I especially like them mounted on wood, but those don’t sell as well in Betty’s shop. Come on back,” Vivian said as she walked around the table. The greenhouse was one big room, but she has sectioned areas off with the plants. There were ferns everywhere, stacked on shelves like a display. We walked past them and I saw rows of huge pots, filled with plants that had long green draping leaves.

“What are these?”

“Those are Agapanthus, Lily of the Nile. They’re evergreens, but they grow best when they’re crowded, so I always keep a bunch in pots back here. You should see them bloom. There will be huge stalks on these that open up into a big, pale blue flower. I think they’ll make your jaw drop more than the orchids. I cut them and Betty uses them as the center flower in her big pieces. That’s something you don’t see everyday.”