Phone Home

Is it possible, just slightly possible that I have achieved something worthy for a call home? I think for a moment about the last few calls home. There was the phone call from the mountains of the Former Soviet Republic of Georgia informing my parents that I had been evacuated due to a revolution and by the way, Dirk and I broke up. There was the call from a hospital bed in Bosnia to ask my father if he knew the Croatian word for Appendicitis. There was the call from a windowless office building in DC to tell my parents I had passed the Foreign Service Exam so please make yourselves available to any strangers asking questions for my security clearance. And there is now.

“Wait a second,” Moms voice is slow and drawn out. I look at my watch. It is 11:30 PM in Washington DC, making it 8:30 PM in Washington State, and all together possible that my mother is already drunk.

“Let me get your father on the phone.”

I am pacing the wood floors of my studio apartment, high above Dupont Cirlce, watching the blink of the red light on the Washington Monument warning the oncoming planes of its presence.

“Really Mom, It’s not that big of a deal. It's kinda supposed to be a secret. But okay, if you want to get Dad.”

She tries to cover the receiver with her hand, but I still hear her scream.

“Miiiicccchhhhaaaaeeellll.”

I hear a click and the bass hum of my Fathers monotone voice.

“This is your father.”

“Oh Michael, is that you?”

“Who else would it be Daisy? We live alone. Did you think the neighbors would be picking up our phone?”

“It’s Meg and she wants to tell us that she is moving to LA."

“Mom, it’s not Meg, it’s Jane. And I’m not moving to LA. Dad, it's not that big of a deal, I just wanted to tell you and Mom that I’ve been invited to LA for a casting call. One of these reality TV show things."

Dad speaks. “That’s nice. Why are you telling us this?”

I fall back on the couch, pull up my sweat covered legs up underneath me and squeeze my sock covered toes mindlessly.

Mom answers before I can.“Oh Michael, she is going to be on MTV!”

“Well, not exactly Mom. Well, not yet. It’s just a casting call. I probably won’t get it, but I feel kinda special they invited me. It's exciting, don't you think?"

“I didn’t know you were an actress. I thought our other daughter was the actress in the family. Who is this again? ”

Dad can’t see my eyes rolling while I listen to my parents latest routine. The ‘I just can’t keep up, there are so many of you’ routine.

“Dad, I’m not an actress. It’s a reality TV show. Like 'The Bachelor'. It's all a secret, I don't really know the details yet, but I just am, myself and they record it, and-"

“Don’t tell them I’m a drunk.”

Silence. Dad breaks it.

“That all sounds very nice Jane."

“They are flying me to LA this weekend for a casting call. I just wanted someone to know. You know, in case I get sold into white slavery or something. I just wanted you guys to know.”

More silence. I curl up a little more on the couch, so that my chin is resting on my knees.

“Well, sounds very exciting. Good luck. I’ll be sure to tell your mother in the morning.”

“Oh stop it Michael. I'm fine."

“I just wanted you both to know.”

“Great, let us know how it goes.” And with that, Dad hangs up.

I can still hear Mother breathing into the receiver. I hear footsteps, and my Father taking the phone out of my Mother’s hand.

"C'mon Daisy, let me take you to bed."

I hear the click of Dad's shiny wingtips crossing the kitchen floor.

I hear the click of the receiver, returning to its cradle.

Comfortable Shoes, Uncomfortable Situation

Saturday was one of those days when I felt uncomfortable in my own skin. You know the kind, when half way through the day you suddenly want to walk into the next store, buy something of the rack and wear it out?

My goal of the day was to buy comfortable shoes. I threw on my knock off uggs and headed out to Georgetown. I looked tres LES cute, but to people in uppity Georgetown I simply looked, homeless. Mary Kate and Ashley can carry this look off because they are famous and their entire bodies could fold up into the girth of my upper thigh. But alas, my thirteen minutes of fame don’t carry my herringbone jacket, chocolate leggings and grey flannel skirt worn with sunglasses the size of my entire head.

People in Georgetown stared at me and my messy pigtailes, mismatched jacket and booties and they pulled their children in closer as they walked by.

I felt short and unattractive. Exactly the way you don’t want to be feeling when seeing your ex-boyfriend (the man I thought I would marry) for the first time in two years. And definitely not the way you want to be feeling when you run into him two more times before the end of the day.

Incident #1:

Arms full of potential outfits to wear out of Zara, I swung around and literally right into, him.

“Jane. Hey. How are you?”

“Oh my gosh. How are you? What a surprise. Well DC is such a small town, I guess it was only a matter of time. So how are you? Oh gosh, did I already say that?”

He was with his brother and I shifted my pile of clothes to the other arm so that I could shake his hand. We stood in the middle of Zara awkwardly exchanging tid-bits about family and his brothers tourist itinerary. I eventually hung my clothes on an available rack which was a big mistake because then I didn’t know what to do with my hands.

I could feel my lips starting to coagulate together, but I felt it might be odd to start applying lip gloss in the middle of our conversation.

I couldn’t even look at him. It was too sad. Always hard to see someone you haven’t in a long time and realize that you don’t know them anymore. There was a time when I knew how much milk he put in his cereal. For all I know, he could be a bagel and cream cheese guy now!

And it was sad because he wasn’t playing it cool. He looked bitter. And he has every right.

I took the first pause in the conversation as a cue to cut out. I shook hands and air kissed and I escaped out of the store and back into the street where a homeless man wearing puma kicks guarded his change from my rapid approach.

Incident #2

Unable to find an outfit to raise my spirits, I decided that buying a pair of uncomfortable shoes would bring me back to equilibrium. At least it would make me feel tall, and I could have used a quick attitude change at that moment. So I met my friend Lion and we made our way to Steve Madden.

As we browsed on separate aisles of the store, I told her the story of incident one. Right as I arrived at the description of my pasty chapped lips, I turned to see him standing in front of me. A pair of loafers in his hands.

“Jane. Hello again.”

“Hi.”

“Who is your friend?”

“Oh. Lion.”

“Well. See you.”

“Yeah, at this rate, I’m not even going to say goodbye because I’ll probably see you three more times before the end of the day.”

“Probably.”

He leaned into me. Kissed my cheek. And walked away.

I caught my breath.

Incident #3

Walking down the street with Lion, our arms linked to keep in the warmth, he and his brother stepped out of the Adidas store in front of us.

We all stopeed and stared at one another. He graciously stepped aside and bowed his head a little.

“After you Jane.”

And he let me pass.

Today is my AA anniversary

That's right. I've now been sober for thirteen years. So long, that I need to spell out thirteen to emphasize the legitimacy.

Since I am in DC on assignment for the next two months, I decided to start my celebration early with a visit to my old home group. At 7:30 AM , I dragged myself down to the Alano Club on Connecticut. The chilly spring day was warmed by the sight of so many familiar faces.

We read chapter 11, A Vision for You. It was exactly what I needed to hear today. I needed to remember that all the excitement that I have been seeking with geographic relocation, romantic entanglement, career ambition and shopping, could easily be found in the form of fellowship and helping another alcoholic. And it's true.

At the half-time, I picked up my coin and felt the stirs of nostalgia.

This is the room where I renewed my commitment to AA three years ago. After a year in that room, my life improved and I relocated to New York. In Manhattan AA feels about ten times faster and ten times more intense.

But, being back in DC and being back in that room has confirmed two things for me.

1. I have changed a lot in the last two years.
2. I haven't changed nearly as much as I thought I had.

It reminds me of the last time I went back to Seattle to help my parents move out of the house where I had spent my childhood. As I packed up boxes room by room, I fondly came across the pencil marks on the wall where my sisters and I had measured our adjusting height. I ran my finger down the wall until it stopped at the date of my last measurement.

Jane, 17 years old, 62"

I put my back against the wall like I was seventeen again. When I stepped away, the realization was all too clear.

Jane, 32 years old, 62"