TIM: Oh! For crying out loud, why are you sitting in the dark?
ME: I'm too lazy to get up.
TIM: You're lazy, true. But you know you have to turn the light on eventually. Are you hiding? Oh no. Did you color your hair yourself? Deborah...
ME: I couldn't do the gray thing. I said I would go completely gray and white, but I didn't do it.
TIM: Okay. Would you like to talk about it?
ME: Tim, if you're showing up, then apparently I need to work on it, right?
TIM: Well said. Here *flips on light* let's have a look. *scrunches up face* That's not TOO bad.
ME: Oh my gosh. I said that when my kids baked their first cake. They were 2 and 3.
TIM: I think "pastry" would be a good description of your hair right now.
ME: Tim...
TIM: I'm thinking, white cake, white icing, with some white piping along the edges. It would be almost elegant if it wasn't on you. You know, a "signature style". Are you ready to pull that off?
ME: Don't make me smile.
TIM: I was serious about the pastry. And now I'm hungry.
ME: I had every intention of growing out my hair. It was kind of gun metal gray, with some groovy white streaks and some lighter gray.
TIM: Oh! I know! I saw it.
ME: Yea, I suppose you did.
TIM: So then, why did you back down? You were very determined.
ME: I was at my daughter's house and she really appeared to be having a difficult time with it. I mean, the poor thing is pregnant, she recently broke her neck and her back, she has these kids, you know....a lot of stress.
TIM: So, your daughter made you do it?
ME: Well, not when you put it like that.
TIM: How would you put it?
ME: I would say it like this, "My daughter made me do it."
TIM: Uh huh.
ME: Ummmm...yea.... That doesn't make a lot of sense does it? I mean, when I say it like that. It sounds weak and it sounds like I'm shifting accountability for my decision to someone else. Ick. Self-realization and truth give me a headache.
TIM: Wow. Keep this up and one day someone will blog about Deborah Katz's Voice. Wait. Probably not.
ME: Hey. I can be wise.
TIM: Maybe someday...when you're old and gray.
ME: Nice....
TIM: Let's bake a cake!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
TIM LETS ME KNOW WHO IS "IN"
TIM: Hmmmmm. The suitcase is out. Where are you going?
ME: Ohio!
TIM: Again? When are you leaving?
ME: On Christmas afternoon.
TIM: My. Why so sentimental?
ME: I know, right? Smack dab in the middle of the day. I wonder if it will be crowded at the airport?
TIM: I wonder if you considered your husband's day in any of this?
ME: Tim, he said to buy the ticket because it was so inexpensive. I have to go to Ohio for my mom's 90th birthday. You know that.
TIM: Well. Use the accessory wall thoughtfully. And I don't mean yours, I mean your mothers'. You know how tastefully she accessorizes. Just listen to her when you dress for her party.
ME: You know, Tim, Mother isn't exactly hitting on all cylinders these days.
TIM: And?
ME: Do you still trust her to dress me? Or even accessorize me?
TIM: Let me put it this way, Deborah. Are you sitting down? Even in your fifth decade, with your education and demeanor, I would prefer you to be accessorized by your 90-year-old, slightly senile, fragile mother whose sense of fashion clearly out-ranks yours and, in fact, whose 90-year-old bones are even thicker and stronger than yours. She is clearly "in".
ME: *quietly* I can take her in a race.
TIM: Of course you can, Deborah. Of course.
ME: Ohio!
TIM: Again? When are you leaving?
ME: On Christmas afternoon.
TIM: My. Why so sentimental?
ME: I know, right? Smack dab in the middle of the day. I wonder if it will be crowded at the airport?
TIM: I wonder if you considered your husband's day in any of this?
ME: Tim, he said to buy the ticket because it was so inexpensive. I have to go to Ohio for my mom's 90th birthday. You know that.
TIM: Well. Use the accessory wall thoughtfully. And I don't mean yours, I mean your mothers'. You know how tastefully she accessorizes. Just listen to her when you dress for her party.
ME: You know, Tim, Mother isn't exactly hitting on all cylinders these days.
TIM: And?
ME: Do you still trust her to dress me? Or even accessorize me?
TIM: Let me put it this way, Deborah. Are you sitting down? Even in your fifth decade, with your education and demeanor, I would prefer you to be accessorized by your 90-year-old, slightly senile, fragile mother whose sense of fashion clearly out-ranks yours and, in fact, whose 90-year-old bones are even thicker and stronger than yours. She is clearly "in".
ME: *quietly* I can take her in a race.
TIM: Of course you can, Deborah. Of course.
Monday, December 7, 2009
TIM GUNN TALKS ME THROUGH "RAIN WEAR".
TIM: I saw everything.
ME: It was raining.
TIM: As if that is anywhere close to a legitimate excuse.
ME: I didn't want to get wet.
TIM: There's a handy appliance called an "umbrella"...cheap and effective, not unlike that gaudy nail polish you're fond of.
ME: Look, it rains so seldom here and our sidewalk goes downhill and gets very slippery. It's extraordinarily treacherous. Truly dangerous. And I had to walk the dog!
TIM: Don't you have an 18-year-old that can do that FOR you? Someone who can dress as a clown...as proxy?
ME: OH MY GOSH, TIM, it wasn't that bad!
TIM: Sure it was.
ME: They're my boots. They may be multicolored, but...
TIM: They're striped. That's different than "multicolored". Striped.
ME: And they might be a little high...
TIM: They go to your knees.
ME: But they're waterproof...
TIM: Because they're rubber. You're wearing stripped, knee-high rubber boots. Were you booked for some birthday party or something? You forgot your red rubber nose.
ME: Oh my gosh. All I cared about today was staying warm and dry. The boots worked. Wonderfully, I might add. And the coat? It was an old, hooded, army-type jacked that was perhaps a bit bulky, but did the trick.
TIM: Ahhhh yes, the trick. Was the trick making balloon animals?
ME: That's it. This conversation is over.
TIM: Why? Have the ponies arrived or is the cake being cut?
ME: Oh my gosh. I did not look like a clown!!!
TIM: No, you looked like a clown's assassin. The army coat? With those gaily colored rubber boots? Did children run from you? Did puppies yip? Were you followed by the police?
ME: I see how it is. Project Runway's season is over and you have no one to pick on, it that it?
TIM: No. You just give me so much to work with. Lose the coat. Better to catch pneumonia than be considered a suspect on the grassy knoll. Keep the boots. Take off that polish. Use an umbrella so you don't have that hunched over appearance. Make it work.
ME: Thank goodness I live in southern California. I couldn't take living somewhere where there's "real" weather. We'd kill each other.
TIM: Lord knows you're dressed for it.
ME: It was raining.
TIM: As if that is anywhere close to a legitimate excuse.
ME: I didn't want to get wet.
TIM: There's a handy appliance called an "umbrella"...cheap and effective, not unlike that gaudy nail polish you're fond of.
ME: Look, it rains so seldom here and our sidewalk goes downhill and gets very slippery. It's extraordinarily treacherous. Truly dangerous. And I had to walk the dog!
TIM: Don't you have an 18-year-old that can do that FOR you? Someone who can dress as a clown...as proxy?
ME: OH MY GOSH, TIM, it wasn't that bad!
TIM: Sure it was.
ME: They're my boots. They may be multicolored, but...
TIM: They're striped. That's different than "multicolored". Striped.
ME: And they might be a little high...
TIM: They go to your knees.
ME: But they're waterproof...
TIM: Because they're rubber. You're wearing stripped, knee-high rubber boots. Were you booked for some birthday party or something? You forgot your red rubber nose.
ME: Oh my gosh. All I cared about today was staying warm and dry. The boots worked. Wonderfully, I might add. And the coat? It was an old, hooded, army-type jacked that was perhaps a bit bulky, but did the trick.
TIM: Ahhhh yes, the trick. Was the trick making balloon animals?
ME: That's it. This conversation is over.
TIM: Why? Have the ponies arrived or is the cake being cut?
ME: Oh my gosh. I did not look like a clown!!!
TIM: No, you looked like a clown's assassin. The army coat? With those gaily colored rubber boots? Did children run from you? Did puppies yip? Were you followed by the police?
ME: I see how it is. Project Runway's season is over and you have no one to pick on, it that it?
TIM: No. You just give me so much to work with. Lose the coat. Better to catch pneumonia than be considered a suspect on the grassy knoll. Keep the boots. Take off that polish. Use an umbrella so you don't have that hunched over appearance. Make it work.
ME: Thank goodness I live in southern California. I couldn't take living somewhere where there's "real" weather. We'd kill each other.
TIM: Lord knows you're dressed for it.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
TIM TALKS ME THROUGH MY FIRST PAIR OF JEANS IN (POSSIBLY) YEARS.
TIM: What's that humming sound?
ME: Me. I'm humming.
TIM: Oh! I thought it was an appliance gone awry.
ME: Thanks. I'm fine. Yourself?
TIM: What are you so relatively content about? That's when you typically hum.
ME: Relatively content? What happened to "happy"? A girl can't be "happy" anymore?
TIM: It's charming that you still refer to yourself as a "girl". And the answer to your question, as far as you personally, is "not so much". You, Deborah, are a "relative"-type of person. You continually weigh balances, ponder circumstances, look at various sides of the issues. So, what may be "happy" to one person is "relatively content" on you. So. Spill. What are you relatively content about.
ME: Fine. Look at my legs.
TIM: OH! They're covered in denim!
ME: Bingo. New pair of jeans, buddy. I broke down and bought them.
TIM: No no no Deborah. You couldn't have done this on your own. Someone helped you. Those jeans fit.
ME: Hey!
TIM: What I mean is, you've never been able to purchase a pair of jeans that actually fit your body. You don't exactly have jean-friendly curves. So...what's the rest of the story. And remember, if you're not forthcoming, I'll know it....
ME: Fine! I was shopping for leggings.
TIM: Oh Deborah. Haven't we had this conversation before. Puhleese. Edit edit edit.
ME: I need something warm to cover my legs when I go to Ohio. It's cold there.
TIM: You're whining. Continue.
ME: Anyway, the manager of the store...
TIM: A woman's store?
ME: Charlotte Russe.
TIM: Oh, thank goodness....I thought you went to Epidemic or something.
ME: Nice.
TIM: Go on.
ME: Anyway, the manager asked if she could get me some jeans. I explained my difficulty in sizing them to me and she accepted it as a challenge. She reminded me of my niece, Tiffany, so I had an immediate comfort level with her. She took me to the jeans section and explained all the different styles and things. She said, "just go to the dressing room and I'll bring some back". I agreed and this is what we came up with. You likey?
TIM: They're fine. Nothing can fix that gluteus minimus, but you've worked around it. Are they comfortable?
ME: Well, they're cut a little low so when I sit down they dip a little lower in the back than I would like. I think girls wear thongs with these things. And at the end of the day, sometimes I can slip them off without unbuttoning them.
TIM: Maybe because they're designed for young girls who haven't given birth yet and are waiting to be asked on their first date.
ME: Hey, I was just excited to find jeans that fit me. Hence, my humming but I think that's over for now.
TIM: *sigh* Fine. Next time bring a more critical eye to your purchase and wear a long, layering tee with these. Turn around. hmmmmm. Did you get a pair that you can dress up a bit? Maybe wear with some heels?
ME: Yes. Yes I did.
TIM: Okay. Use the accessory wall thoughtfully.
ME: Tim. I don't have an accessory wall.
TIM: You will. You'll be in Ohio. Don't get me started on your sister's and mother's eye for fashion. I can't wait!
ME: Which means I'll be hearing from you more in the near future?
TIM: Are you kidding. I wouldn't miss this trip for the world!
ME: Lucky me!
TIM: The drama alone is going to be the entertainment factor. The fashion and artistry is just the bonus! Pack those jeans, we'll take care of the rest of you when you get to the Midwest. Holla!
ME: Holla Tim.
ME: Me. I'm humming.
TIM: Oh! I thought it was an appliance gone awry.
ME: Thanks. I'm fine. Yourself?
TIM: What are you so relatively content about? That's when you typically hum.
ME: Relatively content? What happened to "happy"? A girl can't be "happy" anymore?
TIM: It's charming that you still refer to yourself as a "girl". And the answer to your question, as far as you personally, is "not so much". You, Deborah, are a "relative"-type of person. You continually weigh balances, ponder circumstances, look at various sides of the issues. So, what may be "happy" to one person is "relatively content" on you. So. Spill. What are you relatively content about.
ME: Fine. Look at my legs.
TIM: OH! They're covered in denim!
ME: Bingo. New pair of jeans, buddy. I broke down and bought them.
TIM: No no no Deborah. You couldn't have done this on your own. Someone helped you. Those jeans fit.
ME: Hey!
TIM: What I mean is, you've never been able to purchase a pair of jeans that actually fit your body. You don't exactly have jean-friendly curves. So...what's the rest of the story. And remember, if you're not forthcoming, I'll know it....
ME: Fine! I was shopping for leggings.
TIM: Oh Deborah. Haven't we had this conversation before. Puhleese. Edit edit edit.
ME: I need something warm to cover my legs when I go to Ohio. It's cold there.
TIM: You're whining. Continue.
ME: Anyway, the manager of the store...
TIM: A woman's store?
ME: Charlotte Russe.
TIM: Oh, thank goodness....I thought you went to Epidemic or something.
ME: Nice.
TIM: Go on.
ME: Anyway, the manager asked if she could get me some jeans. I explained my difficulty in sizing them to me and she accepted it as a challenge. She reminded me of my niece, Tiffany, so I had an immediate comfort level with her. She took me to the jeans section and explained all the different styles and things. She said, "just go to the dressing room and I'll bring some back". I agreed and this is what we came up with. You likey?
TIM: They're fine. Nothing can fix that gluteus minimus, but you've worked around it. Are they comfortable?
ME: Well, they're cut a little low so when I sit down they dip a little lower in the back than I would like. I think girls wear thongs with these things. And at the end of the day, sometimes I can slip them off without unbuttoning them.
TIM: Maybe because they're designed for young girls who haven't given birth yet and are waiting to be asked on their first date.
ME: Hey, I was just excited to find jeans that fit me. Hence, my humming but I think that's over for now.
TIM: *sigh* Fine. Next time bring a more critical eye to your purchase and wear a long, layering tee with these. Turn around. hmmmmm. Did you get a pair that you can dress up a bit? Maybe wear with some heels?
ME: Yes. Yes I did.
TIM: Okay. Use the accessory wall thoughtfully.
ME: Tim. I don't have an accessory wall.
TIM: You will. You'll be in Ohio. Don't get me started on your sister's and mother's eye for fashion. I can't wait!
ME: Which means I'll be hearing from you more in the near future?
TIM: Are you kidding. I wouldn't miss this trip for the world!
ME: Lucky me!
TIM: The drama alone is going to be the entertainment factor. The fashion and artistry is just the bonus! Pack those jeans, we'll take care of the rest of you when you get to the Midwest. Holla!
ME: Holla Tim.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
TIM GUNN TALKS ME THROUGH LETTING MY SILVER HAIR SHINE!!!
TIM: Talk to me.
ME: It's just a haircut, Tim.
TIM: Well! I should think it's more than "just a haircut". You don't "just" do anything regarding your looks. Something as huge as this involves hours of pondering. Nothing is "just" anything when it comes to your appearance. It's all part of some big psychological breakdown.
ME: Through, Tim. Break-THROUGH, not down.
TIM: No. I was right the first time. I'll stand by that. But talk to me.
ME: Okay. You're right. I've been doing some thinking.
TIM: Which explains me showing up.
ME: Oh yea...and hello, by the way.
TIM: Thank you.
ME: Well, you know my hair. It's so thin...so dreadfully and comically thin.
TIM: Deborah, there's nothing funny about your hair except the creative ways it attempts to escape from your scalp. I've found it in the most creative places.
ME: What???
TIM: Your hair is on the dog. That's usually reversed.
ME: Ewwwww.
TIM: It's in the lint catcher on the dryer and it's threatening all of us with a house fire. The gagging sounds you hear at night is the shower hacking up a fur ball in the shape of a "D" for desperately shedding Deborah. Did you really think your husband only had allergies at night? In bed? Next to you? Your hair flies up his nose as you toss and turn! He sneezes and coughs trying to avoid inhaling your head!
ME: OKAY! I've got it. You've painted the picture. The graphics are clear.
TIM: You don't even want to know what the neighbors below are saying when you sit on the balcony and there's a slight breeze. Don't you ever hear that choking sound?
ME: Tim!!! I have feelings!!!
TIM: Sorry. Carry on.
ME: Anyway....gosh!...it's thin and frankly, it's silver. AND white. Most of the white is around my face, which is kind of cool. And the silver hair is the exact same color and texture of my Dad's hair, which is also kind of cool. So, I decided to make a big leap and just let it go. I'm got my final weave to help let the silver grow out; it's almost an inch now, and I cut off the long, strangly parts. So! I'm going tribal.
TIM: Tribal?
ME: Yep! I'm going to let it get healthy and silver and embrace my older, wise woman.
TIM: This should be interesting.
ME: Meaning?...
TIM: Exactly that.
ME: So....what do I do now?
TIM: We wait...and do exactly what your is going to do....grow.
ME: It's just a haircut, Tim.
TIM: Well! I should think it's more than "just a haircut". You don't "just" do anything regarding your looks. Something as huge as this involves hours of pondering. Nothing is "just" anything when it comes to your appearance. It's all part of some big psychological breakdown.
ME: Through, Tim. Break-THROUGH, not down.
TIM: No. I was right the first time. I'll stand by that. But talk to me.
ME: Okay. You're right. I've been doing some thinking.
TIM: Which explains me showing up.
ME: Oh yea...and hello, by the way.
TIM: Thank you.
ME: Well, you know my hair. It's so thin...so dreadfully and comically thin.
TIM: Deborah, there's nothing funny about your hair except the creative ways it attempts to escape from your scalp. I've found it in the most creative places.
ME: What???
TIM: Your hair is on the dog. That's usually reversed.
ME: Ewwwww.
TIM: It's in the lint catcher on the dryer and it's threatening all of us with a house fire. The gagging sounds you hear at night is the shower hacking up a fur ball in the shape of a "D" for desperately shedding Deborah. Did you really think your husband only had allergies at night? In bed? Next to you? Your hair flies up his nose as you toss and turn! He sneezes and coughs trying to avoid inhaling your head!
ME: OKAY! I've got it. You've painted the picture. The graphics are clear.
TIM: You don't even want to know what the neighbors below are saying when you sit on the balcony and there's a slight breeze. Don't you ever hear that choking sound?
ME: Tim!!! I have feelings!!!
TIM: Sorry. Carry on.
ME: Anyway....gosh!...it's thin and frankly, it's silver. AND white. Most of the white is around my face, which is kind of cool. And the silver hair is the exact same color and texture of my Dad's hair, which is also kind of cool. So, I decided to make a big leap and just let it go. I'm got my final weave to help let the silver grow out; it's almost an inch now, and I cut off the long, strangly parts. So! I'm going tribal.
TIM: Tribal?
ME: Yep! I'm going to let it get healthy and silver and embrace my older, wise woman.
TIM: This should be interesting.
ME: Meaning?...
TIM: Exactly that.
ME: So....what do I do now?
TIM: We wait...and do exactly what your is going to do....grow.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
TIM GUNN TALKS ME THROUGH THE INEVITABLE LOSS OF MY PET
TIM: I'm sorry Deborah.
ME: Thank you. It hurts.
TIM: He's old. You had him during his best years. You made each other very happy.
ME: I think so. It still hurts.
TIM: I can see that. What are your immediate plans?
ME: Well. It's difficult. He's still so very much "with" us. He smiles. He wags his tail. His hearing has improved. He barks at people that walk under our balcony to "protect" us. He does this adorable thing with his paw when I'm petting him. If I pull away too soon, he puts his paw on my arm so that I have to keep petting him. It's heart-breakingly sweet. And his eyes. That's the hardest thing. They're so soulful. They communicate everything. I think he knows he's on the way out. He knows how much he's loved. He knows we're constantly here for him. He's never ever alone. He sleeps on our beds with us. He's always in front of one of us. He watches me do the dishes, the laundry, and work on the computer. He watches Eli play the piano. We carry him downstairs to be outside. Peter sits with him on the balcony to get fresh air. I prepare his food twice a day. He gets fresh rice and turkey. I cook one or two eggs. I give him two baby aspirins a day and I put a Xanax in his food bowl twice a day as well.
TIM: So, his food has a street value?
ME: Basically, yea. I've made "the call" and found a place that will help us out when the time comes to take him in. I think that's going to be pretty soon. I'm comforted by the knowledge that he knows that we love him. He really knows it. We've been privileged to care for him and demonstrate to him our love. We've been blessed to be able to serve him. Really blessed. So...do you have anything to say?...any advice?...any words?...
TIM: This was a tough challenge. He's a masterpiece. He's ready for the runway.
ME: Thank you. It hurts.
TIM: He's old. You had him during his best years. You made each other very happy.
ME: I think so. It still hurts.
TIM: I can see that. What are your immediate plans?
ME: Well. It's difficult. He's still so very much "with" us. He smiles. He wags his tail. His hearing has improved. He barks at people that walk under our balcony to "protect" us. He does this adorable thing with his paw when I'm petting him. If I pull away too soon, he puts his paw on my arm so that I have to keep petting him. It's heart-breakingly sweet. And his eyes. That's the hardest thing. They're so soulful. They communicate everything. I think he knows he's on the way out. He knows how much he's loved. He knows we're constantly here for him. He's never ever alone. He sleeps on our beds with us. He's always in front of one of us. He watches me do the dishes, the laundry, and work on the computer. He watches Eli play the piano. We carry him downstairs to be outside. Peter sits with him on the balcony to get fresh air. I prepare his food twice a day. He gets fresh rice and turkey. I cook one or two eggs. I give him two baby aspirins a day and I put a Xanax in his food bowl twice a day as well.
TIM: So, his food has a street value?
ME: Basically, yea. I've made "the call" and found a place that will help us out when the time comes to take him in. I think that's going to be pretty soon. I'm comforted by the knowledge that he knows that we love him. He really knows it. We've been privileged to care for him and demonstrate to him our love. We've been blessed to be able to serve him. Really blessed. So...do you have anything to say?...any advice?...any words?...
TIM: This was a tough challenge. He's a masterpiece. He's ready for the runway.
Friday, October 16, 2009
TIM GUNN TALKS ME THROUGH MY RECENT MOVE.
TIM: Designers? Gather round please.
ME: Tim? It's just me.
TIM: I realize that. I just wanted to make you feel like you were a part of something. Did it work?
ME: Not so much. But thanks for the effort.
TIM: Well...that's what I'm here for.
ME: What's the deal? Am I appearing extra needy? Extra lonely? Extra something?
TIM: Well Deborah, you're always a little "extra" something, but that something is seldom good. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you know better than anyone that if I'M showing up, the "needy factor" is extra high. So...talk to me...
ME: Oh...yea...well...let's see. Actually, things are pretty good. I moved, which you probably know, right? And my new town is really nice. I live close to my youngest daughter and that's nice.
TIM: Yes, I've looked through her closet. Listen to her when she talks about fashion. Please.
ME: Got it.
TIM: No really. I mean it. Really LISTEN to her.
ME: I got it Tim. I hear you.
TIM: And the hair thing...listen to her about your hair...all twelve of them...
ME: OKAY TIM!
TIM: Carry on.
ME: School's going okay. As always, there are papers to write, and research to conduct. *sigh* I'm trying to fit into my new ward at church, but there's so many people and it's tough to remember names. You know, just moving stuff...I guess that's it...
TIM: Edit.
ME: What?
TIM: Edit, Deborah. You have all of these "issues" on your table. Handle each one. Get a feel for each one. Does one seem more problematic than another? Your school work, has that really changed from quarter to quarter or does that seem consistent? Your church. Same consistency, but new faces? Is that the challenge there? What's the really good part? Your daughter's proximity, which was quite lacking in your last location? Am I right about that?
ME: Well, yea! All of those things. School is school, no matter where I live. Church is really the same, it's more just learning the people's names and faces, and that's really a matter of time and patience. Living closer to my daughter is a real bonus, so that's a good thing.
TIM: So....you can make this work, am I right? Hmmmm?
ME: Of course you're right. That's why you're here. Hey! Holla at cha girl!
TIM: Holla at your daughter's closet!
ME: Whatever.
ME: Tim? It's just me.
TIM: I realize that. I just wanted to make you feel like you were a part of something. Did it work?
ME: Not so much. But thanks for the effort.
TIM: Well...that's what I'm here for.
ME: What's the deal? Am I appearing extra needy? Extra lonely? Extra something?
TIM: Well Deborah, you're always a little "extra" something, but that something is seldom good. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you know better than anyone that if I'M showing up, the "needy factor" is extra high. So...talk to me...
ME: Oh...yea...well...let's see. Actually, things are pretty good. I moved, which you probably know, right? And my new town is really nice. I live close to my youngest daughter and that's nice.
TIM: Yes, I've looked through her closet. Listen to her when she talks about fashion. Please.
ME: Got it.
TIM: No really. I mean it. Really LISTEN to her.
ME: I got it Tim. I hear you.
TIM: And the hair thing...listen to her about your hair...all twelve of them...
ME: OKAY TIM!
TIM: Carry on.
ME: School's going okay. As always, there are papers to write, and research to conduct. *sigh* I'm trying to fit into my new ward at church, but there's so many people and it's tough to remember names. You know, just moving stuff...I guess that's it...
TIM: Edit.
ME: What?
TIM: Edit, Deborah. You have all of these "issues" on your table. Handle each one. Get a feel for each one. Does one seem more problematic than another? Your school work, has that really changed from quarter to quarter or does that seem consistent? Your church. Same consistency, but new faces? Is that the challenge there? What's the really good part? Your daughter's proximity, which was quite lacking in your last location? Am I right about that?
ME: Well, yea! All of those things. School is school, no matter where I live. Church is really the same, it's more just learning the people's names and faces, and that's really a matter of time and patience. Living closer to my daughter is a real bonus, so that's a good thing.
TIM: So....you can make this work, am I right? Hmmmm?
ME: Of course you're right. That's why you're here. Hey! Holla at cha girl!
TIM: Holla at your daughter's closet!
ME: Whatever.
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