Change is the Only Constant

The old Greek dude who came up with that--clearly didn't have to pay $2400 a month for pink carpet and yellow Formica counters.

Throughout my life I've struggled with change. But really, who hasn't? And regardless of how many times you repeat it's "the only constant"-- It's still so damn hard!! We all want to hold on to something good, something we love or believe in. We'll even fight to hold on to something we only THINK is good. Or at least I do. Until recently, when I decided to change my fight against change--and totally implode my comfortable life in an attempt to unweave the past, and retread my future.

But now that I'm firmly floundering in the middle of my change mess--two months in--I'm seriously beginning to think Gandhi and that ancient philosopher with a name I can't pronounce-- were just assholes for making us believe. Maybe change isn't good? I mean, if it's the only thing you can depend on--like they said--why does it hurt so much? Shouldn't we shield ourselves from that? Stay the course! It's easy! It's familiar! Why change? Well I did. But now I'm thinking I bit off more than I can chew. Now I'm literally choking on change.

Before I tell you why I did this-- and stop speaking in code--I'm just curious. What was the last big change you consciously chose to make in your life? I’m not talking about the ones that are forced on you by fate or maybe this craptastic recession? I mean one you actually made a decision about, in an effort to push yourself forward? Was it a new hairstyle? As much as you loved that little last patch on your five-head, it was time to shave it off and boldly enter the world of male pattern baldness? (Positive Change.) Perhaps you got rid of all the clothes you haven’t worn in two years, and finally went out and bought fat pants that fit over the menopausal muffin top? (Necessary Change.) Switched from PC to Mac? (Cave to trend Change.) Whatever it was—I’m sure, the change wasn’t easy.  No I KNOW the change wasn't easy.

Recently, while sitting on my couch drinking yet another glass of watered-down Chardonnay,

(4 points) I decided it was time for a change. And nothing easy like the aforementioned hair cut--although now I kinda wish I had just gotten bangs. For the past several years, I've tried to hold on to something I probably shouldn't have. And it was constantly making me sad. So, this particular evening I decided that making one little change, at this stage of my life wasn’t enough. I decided to go for the total trifecta of life disruption. Quit my job. Pack up my house. And move out of the city that for the past six years, represented every hope and dream I ever had for what I believed to be happiness. (Hold for applause.)

Now don’t feel bad about only throwing out those size 6 jeans and telling people you’re making “change” and moving on--that's solid stuff. But what you're about to read is a cautionary tale of "Careful what you wish for" because it can all happen too quickly-- when maybe you're not ready for all that change Lynn you stupid, stupid girl who left her nice life because some guy didn't want her anymore? (oops did I write that out loud and without punctuation?) I digress. Sort of. If you’ve read any of my –oh—last 100 blog posts (I don’t have 100 blog posts but maybe you'll believe it) you’ve most likely read about my relationship and my temporary “McDonald’s” job—something I took until I could get another TV gig. IE: something I took to stay close to the guy who broke my heart because I still had hope that “maybe.”

Well that job and "maybe" wasn't cutting it for me anymore. I didn't fit in at McDonald's from the start. And while I had made lovely friends over the past six years, and adored my beautiful little house complete with ducky-filled park next door--I finally decided that staying stuck—as comfortable as it was—wasn’t the way to live my life. I heard myself secretly becoming one of those "why didn't that work out?" people. Sitting alone at home, waiting for the ex to get horny, nostalgic or both--and drop by for a "visit". So I quit “McDonalds”and pulled the plug on the Sacramento chapter—boxed it all up for greener—anythings. I didn't have a job lined up--I was ready to move home and just tough it out. Do a few producer gigs here and there--travel--bum off my sister and live in her Tahoe house. I had a plan. Well sort of. Not really. Just knew that I had to put myself in "harm's way" or risk becoming that lady with 25 cats and my own whiskers.

And just as I made this decision to pull up stakes and give my notice—magically, a job dropped into my lap. In the City I’ve been crying about returning to for the past six years. And this job isn’t at "McDonald's."  It’s with a major creative company. Doing video. No “burger flipping.” So sticking to my gut (wrenching) decision, that I need to rip myself away from the city I moved to for HIM--I took the job. And left. To live with my parents until I found somewhere to call home. Did I mention to live with my parents? Who are both in their seventies?

My first week at the (hesitant to say old) folk's home was rough. This wasn't my childhood home--thankfully. It's hard enough to move in with your parents at 49, I can't imagine having to go to sleep every night staring at my cheerleading trophies from 30 years ago. But this WAS where my much younger sister grew up. So instead of trophies--I am falling asleep looking at her Peter Pan and Annie collection combined with a pile of Cabbage Patch Dolls. On the wall to my right? A giant pink Swatch watch/clock. Don't ask. (or offer $ for it)

My parents are older--and my dad's health is not good. So when I get up at 5:30am--I try not to make any noise so they can sleep. None. Nada peep. But I need coffee. Because I'm not sleeping well in the bed that is not mine, surrounded by Phantom of the Opera posters. To make that coffee--I have to fill the pot and get out my cereal bowl the night before--and then quietly sneak down the stairs in the morning, in the dark without waking up my parents whose room is on the ground floor next to the kitchen. Now, this is not good news, for someone who just recovered from the worst sprained ankle known to bones. (read previous posts) I am pretty sure the other ankle is in jeopardy each time I carry my breakfast up stairs in the dark, quietly trying not to trip on my bathrobe or make the hardwood floors creak. 

I moved my mom's coffee pot into the pantry to cut down on pot gurgling noise and cereal pouring noise. So that one seems to be under control. But what wasn't under control was my laundry. My mother, bless her heart--kept asking me if she could do my laundry that was piling up. I said "No, no, I'll do that. I want to."  Coming home from my fourth day at work I had an episode--the exhaustion of the new job, the early mornings, the no sleep and the stress of leaving my life behind--were all getting the best of me. So was the All-Tempa-Cheer. As I walked into my sister's shrine--I mean room--It leaped out at me. Sitting on the bed was my laundry, neatly folded. I screamed "Mom did you do my laundry?" And then lost it. I cried for an hour. And not just weepy stuff. I was a heaving, slobbering, uncontrollable mess. I couldn't catch my breath. I thought I would throw up. And yes, I used the clean, folded towels on the bed to wipe it all away.

Now I know most of you would love to have your mother do your laundry. Especially those of you who no longer have their mothers around. Victoria and Lynn's Secret: I wasn't crying because she shrunk my bras or saw that I occasionally wear a thong--I was crying because I missed my life, so much. I missed my independence. I missed my house with my own washer--I missed my routine--and my friends and caring for myself. And yes--I even missed the guy who didn't miss me anymore. Had I made a mistake? Maybe I was okay with my life the way it was? Careful what you wish for!!! Be happy with what you have! (insert thunderbolt sound effects here)

The next morning, I tried to explain to my mom that I wasn't upset with her. But I hurt her feelings. She knows nothing different, than to care for her children. No matter how old they are. FF four weeks. I've been doing the job--coming home (?) and looking at Craigslist postings for overpriced boxes with pink carpet and yellow Formica. You'd be amazed what $2400 a month gets you--or in most cases doesn't get you in the Bay Area now. And it's competitive. Landlords only have to show an apartment for 30 minutes. And in those 30 minutes--there will be dozens of people all holding their folders of pre-filled applications and credit checks. I didn't know this either. I've seen about 10 places. And each of them has something wrong with them. Or maybe there's just something wrong with me.  Nothing compares to my cute little home in East Sac. A home I got a month-to-month lease on, because I was SO convinced I'd be moving in with Mr. Sacramento sooner, than later.  Look how well that change worked out?

I have twelve days before the movers have to take my stuff and put it SOMEWHERE. And I'm scared. Scared I won't find a place and I'll become "that" daughter who moved in with mom and dad and never dated again. I'm genetically predisposed for that type of shit. My dad's younger brother moved in with my grandpa--and never married. Which is why--today I decided to take a break from the online apartment search--and instead--switch to online dating. Seriously. Mr. Sacramento is happily dating a carbon copy of me and that's all it took to get me to change that one. Three years and one carbon copy later. 

Honestly--I think I'll have an easier time right now finding a husband than an apartment. I'm not stupid. Dudes have garages. I'm willing to put up with a little Monday Night Football--to have a place to park my car and unload groceries. Even if it means I gotta cook for them too. Kidding aside. I'm doing this because I'm lonely. Living with my parents, missing my friends, working in an uber-tech world where co-workers walk everywhere with their head in a laptop and have meetings via web cam--even if they're just down the hall from each other--I want to meet someone. And maybe that's finally the lesson of this change mess-- kicking in? One of the reasons I came to this changepiphany while sitting on my couch that night--I was lonely. Isn't it funny that while many things change--some things stay the same? Until you  make that choice.

A good friend called me this week to check on my apartment hunting antics. After listening to me cry about how hard it is--and saying I miss my old life and want to go back home--she said "You forget I heard the reverse whine for quite a while." And she's right. I said the same EXACT thing for the past 3 years about how I wanted to move home and find a better job. I'm glad she "reminded me" of that.  No matter how hard it is on me -- or my poor 71 year old mother. I made this happen. I chose this. And while it is really, really hard right now, I'm the one who quit her job in a downturn and got offered a groovy gig at a big tech firm. I wished for all of this to happen. So now--I gotta make it work. The silver linings have yet to show themselves--but I think they're coming. I hope they're coming. I'm getting tired of the clouds.

So yeah--be careful what you wish for. Some of us are lucky enough to maybe, have it all come true. Be ready when they "move the cheese." Or--just move it yourself because you DO deserve better. (I think that's Camembert right?) Change IS the only constant. Philosophic assholes. A warning label would have been nice. It may be the only constant--but it's gonna f*ck you up for a while. And take half your head of hair with it.

Transmissions and Transitions

This week my car AND my uterus required immediate attention. And so I got to thinking about the similarities and stresses involved with getting an indicator light on BOTH in the same week. I took a day off to take care of them--even though going to the mechanic and the OBGYN on the same day--is pretty much every gal's nightmare. It had to be done.

Let's take them one at a time. (And in order of least uncomfortable to write and/or read about.) First up--engine #1. I love my car--I don't have kids or pets--this is it. I'm a BMW woman. I love to drive fast. I take care of this car--wash it, watch where I park it, etc. I got already got one indicator light earlier this month--$500 for some pumps and hoses. So when this second indicator light came on blaring "service engine soon" I thought--okay, must need regular maintenance? I'll take it in next month--it was just in. I popped out the book with my maintenance records and as I paged through the car manual, I read that that light didn't mean "regular maintenance." It means--get yer expensive German car to the doctor quick--something is rotten in Dusseldorf. So I did.

When I went to pick up my baby at the mechanic's--I was trying to think positively. Or I was in total denial. I thought it was probably something like a gasket or whatever those control arm bushing things are. (See while I love to drive BMW's I know nothing about what makes them go vroom-vroom.) But as I walked up to Louis the mechanic,  it was as though everything suddenly switched to slow-mo. I heard him say "Looks like you're gonna need a new transmission"--but I thought if I keep smiling and don't get upset maybe he'll rephrase that with better news.

I said (with a smile) "Yeah, but it only has 76 thousand miles on it!" He ignored the smile--which by now had turned into a psychotic-looking smile with glazed-over eyes. "It could go out in two days, two months, or a year. My advice--sell it. Don't hit the pedal too hard so you don't get another check engine light and sell it."  I'm sorry? What did you just say? Is there any other way to drive a BMW--than to pound the
0-to-60-in-3-seconds-pedal to the floor? Sell it? Huh?

So there it was. My baby--named "Sterling Silver" by my little niece (she names my exes and my cars) was DOA. Or at least--not long for my world. I drove little Sterling home. Even rubbed it's dash--asking it to be good for me as we rode along at 24 mph. I came home and sat in a daze at how unbelievably crappy my luck has been lately. Financially--I really can't afford this right now. But really...WHAT ELSE???

An hour later, as I waited in the exam room for the new doctor (always searching for a new OB aren't we?) I thought about my car. I can't sell it knowing it's got a bad gut--I have a conscience. I still owe on it--more than it's worth anyway. I still love the car and have put so much into it? (door opens) GREAT. Time to get MY engine checked.

New doctor is nice. I'm always a little weirded out by male gynos--I ditched the last one (see previous post) who seemed ultra nervous and stood in the corner 5 feet from my vagina after the exam. But I may have hit the male OB jackpot on this one. HE'S GAY. I love that in the first few minutes of the exam he mentioned his "partner" and the two children they adopted from China. Both me and my uterus relaxed. No risk of the rogue perv male gyno.

But then the conversation turned to..."So let's talk about what we're going to do about those fibroids?" An earlier test revealed my barren womb wasn't entirely barren--it was giving birth to blobs. I give the poor thing an A for effort--for trying to do what it's supposed to do: not be empty. "I think you need to go on birth control pills until you go through menopause." I heard him saying this--but again--I had that same weird, hollow smile on my face as I did earlier in the day waiting for him to offer another option. Really? The pill? Leave it to my life to require birth control pills, when there's absolutely no birthing of any kind to control. Nor any pre-birthing action. Nada. Hollow hormones at work.

I walked out of there with my little prescription in hand. And my still-tagged BMW key in hand. Wondering if I should just drive the car and my problem uterus off a cliff? Or--lease a Mustang and slut it up? I came home and rounded out this day of intestinal upheaval by immediately going to Google. The news wasn't good. Yes it's possible for a BMW with only 77K on it to need a new transmission. I'm one of seven percent of BMW owners surveyed who fit that classification. You really can't make this shit or those odds up. That--and the search results revealed a rebuilt transmission will be a GM engine and cost 4K. Wow. Maybe taking some extra hormones will do me some good to balance out the fits of road rage I'm going to be experiencing in the near future as I drive my AstroBeemer?

When I Googled that--(hormones, not road rage) I was immediately faced with a laundry list of side effects--and for someone 48--including blood clots, bloating and acne. I stared at my computer screen, thinking the odds are slim those will happen to me--but then I remember the BMW survey--and the "slim odds" you'll need a new transmission at only 77K. So what do I do? I can't afford to fix it. Or buy a new one. I don't want blood clots. Or a rebuilt anything! And BTW--why is life so cruel--really, more acne? I didn't even use the damn thing? Can't I just cruise through menopause? Pedal to the metal? I'd happily take a uterus rebuilt by GM. Seriously. Those suckers come with a 6 year warranty--that'll take me into my 50's!

Looking under the hood is a good thing. If you know what's wrong--you can find solutions and fix it. I turned off the computer. I'll get a second opinion on the car--and my girlie parts. I popped the first pill--a little sad I don't have my committed boyfriend to have some committed fun with. (you knew that was coming.) And while I"m pretty sure I experienced about ten of the top 20 side effects that night--I'm trying to be fearless. I'm trying to let go. I'm trying to trust. Maybe it'll be good for me? Besides we're all driving on borrowed time. Right?