Hope Dreams

     People always say the best time to look for a new job, is while you already have a job. People always say that because its one hundred percent true-----one hundred percent of the time. Until this period of my life, I’d never been unemployed. Working since I was seventeen, I grew up believing that welfare, food stamps and unemployment were for poor people, lazy people….bad people. But now, in this tilt-a-whirl economy, I find my opinions and beliefs indubitably changed. Interview after interview after interview! And still nothing. My head, a sea of amassed rejection letters from every conceivable direction. Each day plays out like the beginning of the movie, Erin Brockovich: enduring countless dismissals while holding a smile. Only I don’t have kids, and possess slightly more of “some” college education. And I’m not that thin. [Enter first sigh of the day here.] As my future teeters precariously in the distance, it’s hard to feel like I have any sort of control over anything. I ask myself: Is this my fault? Did I wrong someone? Is the answer right in front of me? Is this my movie? Even at night, when I lay my head to rest, everything is fair game.

       A few months back, I had a dream that I got hired at Trader Joe’s Grocery Store. It was one of the top ten most thrilling moments in my life…and it didn’t actually happen. The dream took place during my first day on the job. Wearing a Hawaiian shirt, I remember standing at attention during a welcoming ceremony. All of my favorite crew members were there, positioned in a circle around myself and other rookies. One of them winked at me as the general manager placed a Hawaiian Lei around my neck, another raised the 'sign of horns' while wagging his tongue. My chest rose in a ginormous sigh of relief. Not only was my two-year stint of unemployment coming to an end, but it was happening at one the most sacred places of all…to me anyway. The day continued with new tasks: learning inventory, stocking dairy and helping customers. Even goofing off with fellow staff in the salad section. We laughed in slow motion and pushed each other rambunctiously through the stock room double doors. For some reason I was quicker than the other recruits, learning and working twice as fast. And there atop a wooden wine crate, against the Cabernet Sauvignon, my crewmember crush “pinned” me. He was angelically backlit; wearing a red “crew” shirt with the sleeves ripped off, and had shiny-black Scott Baio hair. Without looking down and with one hand, he groped my left breast, pinning the red nametag to my shirt. His fingers lightly grazing the engraved lettering, which read, “Crew Member since 2012.” His smirk gleamed as my eyes trailed down in awe, my thumb tilting the tag into my view. Our peers huddled around us, cheerfully shoving our shoulders. I imagine I must have been smiling absurdly, as I lay in bed, blissfully asleep.

      

       But like most good things in life, and most dreams for that matter---it didn’t last long. The sun began to set upon the bustling parking lot and fresh cut flower shelves outside. There was a still hum of  commerce when things suddenly started to go wrong in that quick-flip dreamy kind of blur.  Out of nowhere, customers began running out of the store. “We’re being attaaacked!” they shouted. Others screamed of terrorists, bombs and assassins. The building was shaking and rattling furiously, the ceiling cracking above us. It was the end of the world and we knew it. “Nooooooooooooo” I wailed over an artichoke pyramid. “Not today! Please God for fuck sake not TODAY!” I cried and fell to my knees in defeat. My eyes welled with tears as I slowly looked around the room. Panic, shear terror and hysteria flooded the aisles. Staff huddled together against the walls, forming a plan of escape. Suddenly I began to choke as someone grabbed my collar from behind and started to drag me. My sneakers chirped as they skidded along the floor. Stammering, trying to grab everything in my path, I tried to pull away but his force was too strong. As he pulled me into a small room, I saw my crush, running through frozen foods. Suddenly he was struck---shot in the head, his body falling to the ground at the produce border.

           My back pushed against a wall, eyes clouded with tears, I began to scream as my head shook left to right violently. SLAP!! The bastard slapped me. I looked directly at him; sweaty-faced and eyes’ now focusing it was…Liam Neeson. Dressed in black gear, he grabbed my jaw, gun in the other hand. “I’ve got a particular set of skills…” he began as I my eyes squinted at him in disbelief. “I will keep you alive, if you do EXACTLY what I say,” he instructed. “Its Liam Neeson” I began whispering aloud to myself. He took out a large black duffle bag, pulling out clothes and shoes. “Put these on,” he demanded. “We’ve only a moment before they arrive.” Pulling the black vest over my chest, I continued, “Liam Neeson!” Pants on, pulling a black combat boot over my foot, “FU-CK-ING LIAM NEESON!!” I yanked a double loop around my ponytail. Standing guard at the closet door, he peered through a crack. Exhausted and confused I scanned over my shoulder, standing crew members dressed in similar getup, bleak and starring at the ground. He shoves a glock into my chest and says, “here we go.” My heart pounds, beating out of my chest. Somehow I know how to cock my gun and the door swings open, blinded by light I run out…screaming into a roar.

       Annnnd that’s when I woke up. Sweaty, confused and totally freaked out, I sat up in bed. “I just had the most fucked up dream,” I whispered to the boy. “Reeeeeallyyyyy?” he murmured, rolling into a snore. I spent the next few days wondering what the hell that was for? And Liam Neeson? I mean I LOVE him but why would my subconscious pick him to be my savior? Needless to say, I decided to hang on to my Trader’s application. I figured the end of the world could wait a while. Plus I was more afraid of being rejected and not getting the job. As long as I held onto it, I’d still have a chance, as backwards as that sounds.

         Flash forward to now: unemployment running out, less hopeful and still very unemployed.  A few weeks ago, I’d decided that fear was no longer an option. I need a job and must do everything in my power to attain one.  So I pulled the old application out, updated it and added a few photo sheets of my artwork. Just to demonstrate my abilities incase they needed a store sign artist. I marched over there and shook hands with the on-site manager. I stood by patiently as he separated my artwork from the actual application. “We just have to send these over to corporate—bare bones,” he said. “Ahhhhh,” I replied confidently. Hoping to mask my concern as my personal stock began to dwindle. He started out with a couple of routine questions. Which lead to a short, delightful conversation about Tabouleh and segued into frozen Kobe Beef Burgers. We laughed, swapped recipes and ended on the firm standing of Joe’s Diner Mac n’ Cheese: bypass the guiltless version all together. “Go big or go home,” when it comes to the frozen Mac.  He gave me his card and told me to call him if I didn’t hear anything in a couple weeks. “This could be good!” I said to myself as I drove home….confident.

     And yet, at exactly two weeks gone by, it came. “Fuck,” I whispered to myself. Standing at the mailbox, “I didn’t even know they still sent these via snail mail.” I pinched the envelope between my thumb and index finger, it was thin. I didn’t have to open it to know it was a rejection letter. Walking up my stoop, I sliced open the envelope with a pocketknife. As I sat down in the kitchen, my eyes glided along the words, “Thank you for your interest, we’ve decided to go another direction.” And ending with my personal favorite, “Good luck in your search.” Sigh. Followed by several more, slightly heavier sighs. With one fell swoop, I knocked the papers off the table and retreated to the couch in defeat. I probably would’ve cried, but the Xanax I’d taken twenty minutes prior made it impossible to produce any lavish emotional outbursts. Instead I buried my face into a throw pillow and fell asleep, broken-hearted.

      I guess to fully understand my exaggerated despair; you’d have to be privy to my obsession, nigh cult following of Trader’s Joes. I ADORE TJ’s. The boy often refers to our shopping trips as, “a grand day out.” I love to peruse at my leisure, stop by the demo table, and graze the “new items” end cap. I am the slow shopping asshole that all the much busier people are trying to get around. But I can’t help it! It’s my second Tiffany’s. I can only explain it as Holly Golightly loving referred to her heaven in Breakfast at Tiffany’s:

Holly Golightly: Listen, You know those days when you get the meeean reds?

Paul Varjak: The mean reds, you mean like the blues?

Holly Golightly: No. The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?

Paul Varjak: Sure.

Holly Golightly: Well, when I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump in a cab and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there.

   

    Unnnnless you’re me, who apparently happens to have a close, tactical friendship with Liam Neeson and its your first day at work. Lol. [Enter another long sigh here.] I don’t have any answers right now and I’m struggling really hard. Probably struggling harder than I ever have before---in my life. But regardless of how crazy this experience is making me, I have still have hope. Even if it comes in the shape of a semi-automatic weapon and an ass kicking, Irish omega male. 

Emma, Edna and I...

For years….it has to be more than that…at least since I lived at home with my family, I’ve had this book: a vintage, 1919 edition of Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary. Stashed away in my shelves, its lovely binding has become a mess, hanging on for dear life by a few simple threads.  I bought it at a used bookstore…back when those still existed (sarcastic wink). And what attracted me to it was an inscription on the inside of the front cover: Edna Loftus Smith, Coco Solo, C.Z., December 1926. “How romantic.” I thought, as I grazed my fingertips across the flowery script.

She must have thought it was important? Or it must have been important to her? Important enough to write her name and location in the book. But there’s no other marks…no clues. Maybe it was just habit? “WHO were you Edna?” I’d say aloud, flipping through pages. “And why do I need to know?” These are the sorts of questions I’ve always asked myself, every time I see it tucked away in my bookcase. Sometimes I’ll pull it out, fan the pages once again; just to be sure I didn’t miss anything. One year, I had even attempted an online search. But it’s difficult to stalk and trace a woman that’s over a hundred years old. And so I gave up my search, faithful that when the time came, she might appear.

This past summer I resurrected Madame Bovary yet again, from another life of boredom. We spent lazy sunny afternoons on a small patch of grass in front of my apartment. Unemployed afternoons….lol. Noontime marks when I should have been looking for a job. Instead I lay on my belly, dog at my side, minutes passing as I listened to her story. She spelled of boring conventional husbands, splendid affairs and evenings far more passionate than I could imagine.  I saw something of myself in her character. The part of me that stares out windows, dreams while watching others pass and who wonders…imagines. Maybe even sometimes worries that I’m not leading the sort of life I yearn for. Not in terms of adultery of course, lol, but Emma Bovary's journey is one of refusal. Refusal to accept being trapped, hungry for an alternative and ripe with passion. Raw feminism if it ever had a start. Ideas that can be applied to most areas in life. And as for myself; I am not fearless, not taking chances, not struggling against the water. I’m just here.

A couple of weeks ago, on the rare occasion that Kevin was actually sitting at the dinner table with me, I was cleaning my nook. My nook is the small station in which I keep all my everyday items. It’s a tiny office, command station, as he likes to call it. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the old book. I told him the story of my vintage treasure, what attracted me to it and about the inscription. “That’s cool.” He replied, eyebrows raised. “You should look for her again, you never know?” he hoped aloud, walking back to his chair. “Yeah…maybe.” I said slowly. 

That evening I sat in bed, searching and reading online. I found that Coco Solo, C.Z. stood for Coco Solo, Canal Zone of the Panama Canal. It had been a United States Navy submarine base, established in 1918 on the northwest side of the Panama Canal. Was she an officer? Was she married to one? Was she stationed there? Still so many questions unanswered and more arose. Finally I came upon a website titled, CZBrats. It appeared to be a site documenting the history of the canal, people who lived and were stationed there and what the canal looks like today. As I clicked through old photos, I tried to imagine Edna, standing on the shore or posing near barracks. Still….I found nothing of her personally. I decided to email the people who ran the site. At the very least, maybe they could point me in the right direction? It was worth a try.

A few days later I received an email from a woman named Lesley. She kindly replied and offered to send Edna’s name through her mailing list. Perhaps someone might know something? And that was all it took: a simple request and the kindness of a generous stranger. A few days later another email appeared in my inbox, with names, birthdates, places of residence…and even a photo.  Tears welled up in my eyes as I began to sift through the information. “I can’t believe it!” I cried to Kevin as he hugged me and stood behind my shoulder, gazing at the screen. “Wow.” he said, shaking his head. “Merry Christmas baby.” And I just nodded yes. So completely touched, I couldn’t even speak. Finally. Finally I had a portrait of who this woman was, where she had been, even a photo. It was amazing.

I believe the world speaks to me in signs. Sometimes they’re actual—physical signs, and sometimes its an object, a collection of words or even gesture. That when I put it all together I’m certain it was meant for me, right at that moment. I know because somehow it always fits, exactly. It correlates with my life, my needs and desires. Like some beguiling force, answering all my questions and pointing the way. I know what you might be thinking, “how silly” right? But I can tell you the exact sign I saw just days before Kevin and I met, before I got my job in Santa Monica, when I knew my life was changing. And now, at a time when I’m earnestly searching for my path, lost in my own mind (sometimes negativity) and worried, I meet this woman. She’s a lady who allows me to take my mind off myself for a moment. A person who already lived many of my desires: going to college, visiting New York City, sailing around the world. A girl who appears to have been well traveled, thoughtful, and maybe even adventurous. I believe she is a clear sign. A beacon: begging me not to give up, not to feed my wounded spirit and never to forget my dreams.

Below is the email from Lesley and all the wonderful details about Edna...

Candace,

Someone I know looked up information about Edna G.M. Loftus.  Here's what he came up with.  Enjoy -- now you have some info and a picture to go with your book!!  It is a picture of Edna when she was in high school.

****************

Edna G. M. Loftus was born 20 Aug 1899 in Philadelphia, PA.  In 1938, she sailed from Naples, Italy to NY, NY.She was married, but travelling alone to "Bureau of Aeronautics, Navy Dept. Washington, D.C." She attended William Penn High School for Girls in 1916, and a wonderful photo of her is available. Her parents were John W. (b: Nov 1874 in England) & Elizabeth (b: Nov 1881 in PA). They were married in 1898. Edna's siblings were John W. Jr.(b: abt 1901), Florence M. V. (b: abt 1903), Elizabeth A. (b: abt 1912), and Dorthea R. (b: abt 1915).  Edna’s mother Elizabeth’s parents were both born in Italy. They are listed on the 1900, 1910, 1920, and 1930 census in Philly. Sister Dorthea (Dorothy) traveled to the CZ in 1936, 1937, and 1946. The Loftus Family apparently lived at 6046 East Elmwood Ave. in Philadelphia. In 1923 Edna was living in Los Angeles, and travelled to/from Hawaii.  In 1932 she to/from Yokohama, Japan.   Apparently she took world cruise in 1957 too.Edna’s husband was Rear Admiral Clyde W. Smith. He was the foster father of her sister Dorothy, which explains Dorothy’s trips to the CZ. The admiral died 19 May 1974 in Washington D.C. He is buried in Arlington. Edna is probably next to him. He was born in Marathon, Iowa in 1900.

***********

From this information it can be assumed that Rear Admiral Smith was one of the Navy’s early aviation people. I did find information that he was a Naval Cadet, but no year. At one point he was stationed at Coco Solo. They must have retired to the Los Angles area.

Lesley

A few last interesting details that seem to intersect between Edna and I...

Who knows, maybe Im nuts? But some signals are hard to ignore. What attracted me to this item? Some people say that some objects from past lives come back to you. Maybe we knew each other? Maybe I was her? Romantic and strange and maybe I'll never know :)

*********

-I think its strange that Edna was born in 1899. Most of the women in my family (including myself) are what my mother and I affectionately refer to as "the nines." 1919, 1939, 1959, 1979, 2009...all our years of birth. 

-The date that she was born, Aug. 20th, is the same date that we got Fiona. A special date indeed. 

- And just a neat tid bit : The publisher of Edna's edition of Madame Bovary, is Brentano's of New York. Brentano's was a very famous, very popular publishing house and bookstore in New York City at the turn of the century. They specialized in French literature, many titles by French writers in exile during the Vichy France period. Its possible that Edna purchased this book from the very bookstore itself. 

Deck the Halls...

from Ex Libris Journals

Every year I usually find one thing, be it object or collection of words, that embodies my Christmas Mojo. This year I was lucky enough to find it early, try October early! I was surfing an Etsy wave, purchasing at least one vintage item a week. To keep things from getting out of control, I gave myself a $10 - no more than $15 dollar limit. While sifting through vintage holiday die-cut items, I happened upon these lovely little pages. From a shop called, Ex Libris, comes these wonderfully upcycled, vintage book pages turned art piece. Boasting bright printed text and pop imagery, some even include famous quotes and "reworked" versions of timeless classics. My favorite, "KEEP CALM and CAROL ON" to revamp the World War 2 classic, "KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON." They cost $7 bucks a piece and sometimes you can even catch a great deal, like buy 3 get 1 free. 

This year my mojo selected the Santa print above. "That's it." I said to myself the first time I read it. So Kev and I both made separate purchases of 3 to get our 1 free! In my bunch I ordered two holiday themed pieces that I figured would make great decoration around the apartment. The only challenge I ran into was framing. I didn't want to pay to have them framed, as that's sometimes very costly. And books don't usually run in standard frame sizes. lol. But I did find these very inexpensive, festively silver frames at Aaron Brothers. At only $6 bucks a piece, they ended up working perfectly! Instead of framing, I backed each page with merry but simple wrapping paper. It was inexpensive, fun and next year if I feel so inclined, I can change out the backing. Options! I love options. 

Happy Holidays!

vintage memories

Gifts from the past...loving it.

Maybe I should use "the Secret" ?

Dear Ralphs or Kroger---or who ever you are, 

I have entered the $100 gift card drawing every single time I've received the option on a receipt. We have not won yet. Please select us, it could really come in handy. 

Thanks,

Candypants

mi casa es su casa???

Thursday night we had dinner at Brent's Deli with Kevin's best friend. Over omelette's and triple-decker club sandwiches, Kevin began to tell the story of our burst pipe and flooded living room carpet. We both complained about our plumbing, lamented over being exiled to one room in the house and rolled our eyes simultaneously. Cutting into his french toast, Kirk began to shake his head and replied, "That's why you guys gotta get outta that place man....it's a shit hole. It really is a shit hole." And then he continued on his merry way to syrup and butter and thick cut bacon. 

Kevin and I quickly gave each other a strange glance and I changed the subject. Later, on the way home, we discussed what happened. I was surprised that Kirk's comment bugged Kevin. They've been friends for over twenty years and quite frankly, usually, Kirk can do no wrong in every one's eyes. Its a strange phenomena that I've witnessed, attempted to crusade against and pitifully given up on. But this time it was different for Kev. Maybe it was all the pipe bursting bullshit we'd been through all week? Or him having just returned home from Vegas? But it struck a cord with him and he was genuinely offended. As was I...to say the least. But I did quickly shrug it off and tell myself, that Kirk was just being Kirk and whatevs...I love my home.

Which brings me to my question of the day, where the fuck do people get off? I think this is a serious epidemic within the human race---as of late. It go's beyond manners becoming a lost art, they're extinct. And what surprises me the most, is when it comes from someone that is very close to you. Where's the cutoff point which stops a person from insulting their best friends, family members, etc.? And why don't people observe it more often? Furthermore, why do we let people get away with it? Why don't we call them out and say, " hey you douche, that hurts my fucking feelings." I mean if the asshole in point, doesn't care to reserve his feelings towards you----then WHY do you bother safeguarding his?

And we're all guilty of it. Do I just have better manners? Am I a kinder person than they? Or am I chicken? lol. I haven't decided. But I do know that when something like this transpires, I usually think to myself, " welllll, what they said REALLY pisses me off but if I call them out---it could really embarrass them in front of everyone---and I would hate if someone did that to me if I fucked up. Soooo I'll just not-say-anything now and talk shit about them later...and hold a pity resentment....for like...ever." Giggle. I'm sure that's not a very healthy approach but it gets me through difficult situations with difficult people.

Don't get me wrong, its not hard AT ALL, to summon the ghetto within. I can bring it. Its just that usually I tend to look at the situation as a whole, instead of being immediately reactionary. Say for instance, dinner might not have ended so well or been very comfortable if I'd said what I really wanted to say, like : I'm sure our place seems like a shit hole to an asshole like you who's FORTY and still lives with Mommie in her fucking condo in Westlake Village---in an all-white, rich bedroom community. What with your fucking Prius and Mexican maids running around cleaning up after you----our situation must look pretty dire.  [enter long sigh here] See what I mean? And its not that I think poorly of Kirk for any of those things---ever. But if you fucking insult me, I might use them to insult you back. Again, sandbox etiquette---poor taste, poor manners, uncivilized.

Maybe the truth is that we all have opinions and ideas of each other. Some we should divulge, when asked or when its definitely necessary : like when you have a booger the size of Texas in your nose. You can and should politely warn your friend, " you've got a bat in the cave." But when its something entirely different, say something REALLY negative, say an insult to their current life state----unless the person is a compulsive hoarder and you're finding dead cats buried under shit in their living room---you should probably keep-it-to-yourself. Have your judgments, continue with your "unique" perspective---but in the privacy of your own head. It might be withholding, dishonest? Or just not entirely truthful. Or maybe its just nicer to shut the fuck up.

I'm having a little trouble getting my Christmas mojo on. Normally the hanging of lights is the start to the season and takes place on Thanksgiving evening. But this year... I was tired for some reason. "I'll get to it." I kept saying. And then this past Sunday, I came home to discover our living room floor was soaked in water. We discovered the next day that a pipe connected to our water heater had burst, was shooting water into the walls behind our t.v., and flooding the entire carpet. Ew, to say the least. As we moved our entire living room into the dining room, I realized that it was probably a good thing that I didn't get to the holiday decorating. For I would have had to move the tree somewhere...in the kitchen? As it is, we've been exiled to the bedroom during this entire week. That means no DVR, no xbox for the boy, no command station by the window....no common area at all. I think even the dog is bored of being in the bedroom. She probably feels like Anne Frank. 

The pipe has been replaced, the wall patched up/painted and the carpet guy comes tomorrow. Hopefully by Sunday, we'll be fully operational again. And we can get this holiday back on track!